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WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

I 


BOOKS BY 

FORRESTINE C. HOOKER 

t£j 

Prince Jan 

Star: The Story of an Indian Pony 
When Geronimo Rode 
The Long, Dim Trail 


WHEN GERONIMO 
RODE 

BY 

FORRESTINE C. HOOKER 

II 



GARDEN CITY NEW YORK 

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 
1924 

















COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY 


DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 




PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES 
AT 

THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y. 

First Edition 


MAR 28 



C1A777749 is 




"WO 


TO 

MEN WHO RODE GERONIMO’s CRIMSON TRAIL, 
THEIR SADDLES AS PILLOW’S, STARS AS 
CANDLES, AND THEIR ONLY ROOF THE SKY 



I wish to express my deepest appreciation of the 
invaluable collaboration of my loyal and unselfish 
friend, Grace Geldert, in the writing of this story. 

—Forrestine Cooper Hooker. 

Washington, D. C. 

May 3, 1923. 








FOREWORD 


*‘Tell me a true story,” a child invariably pleads; 
and men and women are but “children of a larger 
growth.” 

Often I have been asked, “How can I get authentic 
material for a western story?” My stereotyped 
answer is, “Live in the real West from earliest child¬ 
hood, and remember the things you have actually 
seen and the people you have known. Then the 
story will write itself, for the real West is romance.” 

When I first knew the West, it was still a bloody 
battleground where the soldiers and white settlers 
waged grim warfare against the Indians. Buffalo 
herds were a common sight to my brother, sister, and 
myself en route with our parents from one frontier 
garrison to another, as my father was then an officer 
in the Tenth U. S. Cavalry. Often we would be a 
month or more travelling by wagon with escort of 
soldiers, camping at night; and the troopers were 
always on the alert for signs of hostile Indians. I 
recollect vividly a buffalo stampede that swept 
across the prairie toward us, on one occasion, while 
the soldiers waited ready to shoot into the herd in 
case it headed too near our wagons. 


IX 


X 


FOREWORD 


Famous soldiers, my father’s comrades, often 
visited our garrison homes in various parts of Texas, 
Indian Territory, and Arizona. As a very small girl 
I breathlessly listened to their conversations which 
held more fascination for me than my beloved fairy 
tales, or even a ride on my pony. 

When I was graduated from an Eastern school at 
the romance-loving age of seventeen, the regiment 
in which I had been raised was just beginning its 
campaign work in Arizona against the Chiricahua 
Apaches who were led by Geronimo. 

That is how it happened that though I am a mere 
woman and the story of “When Geronimo Rode” is 
a tale of valiant heroes whose names are written in 
American history, it was not necessary for me to read 
what other authors had already written. I lived 
in the heart of the Geronimo campaign and those 
who were actively engaged in it were my own friends; 
friends of my mother and brother-officers of my 
father, the late Brigadier-General Charles L. Cooper, 
U. S. Army, who held the distinction of having 
struck the last blow of the campaign by his capture of 
Chief Mangus and the remnant of the Chiricahua 
Apaches. 

Fort Apache, Fort Grant, Fort Bowie, Willcox, 
Bonita Canon were familiar to me, not only in girl¬ 
hood but later. After my marriage at Fort Grant 
in 1886 , I went to live at the headquarter Hooker 
ranch, ten miles from the garrison. So I remained 


FOREWORD xi 

for many years in that section and frequently rode 
over the old trails. 

Personal recollections of men who lived in Arizona: 
the memories of my mother and myself concerning 
the Geronimo campaign; official reports preserved by 
my father, which my mother and I went over after 
his death; private letters written to our family by 
officers during that period; records from the War 
Department and from the Historic Department of 
the U. S. War College; and above all in value, per¬ 
sonal letters and conversations I have had with such 
men as Lieut.-General Nelson A. Miles, Major- 
General Anson L. Mills, Brigadier-General Marion 
P. Maus, and other officers who served through the 
entire campaign, have made possible the writing of 
a true story of the most arduous, protracted, and 
dramatic campaign ever waged against the fiercest 
Indians of America. 

It is also a story of a vanished race of people. For 
the original Chiricahua Apaches, sent to Florida as 
prisoners of war for life, were transferred to Fort 
Sill, Oklahoma, where most of them have died, and 
their few descendants are fast assimilating the 
white men’s standards of living. 

And it is a faithful sketch of the coloured soldier 
of the old Tenth Cavalry; his devotion and loyalty 
to his officers and their families, his cheerful en¬ 
durance of hardships, his bravery when facing danger, 
and his pride in his regiment. 


Xll 


FOREWORD 


I have been fortunate in having as my collaborator 
in writing this book Mrs. Louis N. Geldert, National 
President of the League of American Penwomen, 
herself a distinguished author. Like myself, she 
was writing about men who had been friends of her 
father and of her own girlhood days, notably the 
late Major-General Frank D. Baldwin, who was 
Chief of Staff for Lieut.-General Nelson A. Miles 
when the latter commanded the United States Army. 

Many incidents familiar to me before Mrs. Geldert 
and I had ever met had been related to her by 
Generals Baldwin, Shafter, Miles, and Maus; and 
as we worked together we constantly discovered 
mutual knowledge of facts. Each trail, date, and 
incident regarding the actual campaign has been 
verified; real names and places are given except in 
the love story where we, together, have worked a 
mosaic design of fact and fiction which is inlaid 
against the gold background of truth. 

The book is an authentic record of American con¬ 
ditions, heroism, and hardships endured by a little 
group of officers and enlisted men of the United 
States Army in the winning of the West, and it is 
heart and soul an American story. 

Forrestine Cooper Hooker. 

May 17, 1923. 

Washington, D. C. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


CHAPTER 

I. The Web. 1 

II. Bonita. 8 

III. Ready and Forward.12 

IV. A Daughter of the Regiment . 18 

V. A Mile a Minute .25 

VI. The Unexpected.32 

VII. The Barbed-wire Lane.40 

VIII. Juana Gonzales.46 

IX. Geronimo’s Crimson Trail .... 51 

X. The Sycamore Tree.57 

XI. Who Waiting, Serve.64 

XII. Captain Emmet Crawford .... 71 

XIII. When Duty Calls.80 

XIV. Good-bye.88 

XV. Mutiny.96 

XVI. A Question of Boots.104 

XVII. The Duchess Takes the Helm . . 109 

XVIII. Christmas at Old Fort Grant . 116 

XIX. “Only To-night!’.125 

xiii 


















CONTENTS 


xiv 

CHAPTER PAGE 

XX. The Clod and the Star .... 132 

XXI. As a Valkyr Rides.136 

XXII. Camp Bonita Canon.144 

XXIII. “After Me, the Deluge!” . . . 151 

XXIV. An Unexpected Uprising . . . 158 

XXV. Geronimo’s Stronghold . . . . 166 

XXVI. The Storm.177 

XXVII. In Days of Peace.184 

XXVIII. Not on Official Record . . . 192 

XXIX. Threads of the Web .... 202 

XXX. Geronimo Checkmates Crook . 210 

XXXI. General Miles Takes Command . 216 

XXXII. Bonita Decides.223 

XXXIII. “Boots and Saddles” .... 229 

XXXIV. Where Geronimo Rode . . . 236 

XXXV. A Black Hero .241 

XXXVI. Pacer.249 

XXXVII. “Greater Love Hath No Man-” 257 

XXXVIII. “Checkmate!” .263 

XXXIX. The Split Trail.273 

XL. Mangus, the Big One .... 277 

XLI. The Last of the Chiricahua 

Apaches.284 











CONTENTS xv 

CHAPTEB PAGE 

XLII. The Lost Troop.291 

XLIII. The Silent Call. 297 

XLIV. A House of Glass. 299 

XLV. Water!. 304 

XLVI. The Land of Lost Trails .... 313 

XL VII. Reveille!. 320 

















WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


/ 


» 






WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


Chapter I 
The Web 


T WO watched. 

A hawk poised against the sky between 
mountain peaks, and Geronimo, patient as 
Fate, on a rock that jutted high above the canon. 

No war bonnet of eagle plumes adorned his head. 
He wore a plaid gingham shirt, faded blue vest, and 
trousers bought at the post trader’s store. Moccasins 
were on his feet, and the red handkerchief bound 
around his forehead not only held back his grizzled 
locks, but proclaimed that Geronimo, medicine man 
and self-constituted war chief of the Chiricahua 
Apaches, was a ‘‘good Indian” and on peaceful terms 
with his white brothers. 

Those who saw Geronimo for the first time shrank 
at his cruel mouth, but when they once looked into 
his eyes all else about him was forgotten. 

No one ever forgot Geronimo’s eyes. 

Now, as he squatted immovably on the mountain- 


2 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

side, those eyes scintillated venomously, like those of 
a rattlesnake coiled and ready to strike. 

The hawk swooped! 

Geronimo waited. 

Below him dashed the east fork of the White River 
where trout leaped at insects darting over the cool 
ripples. Here and there deeper pools reflected the 
brilliant colours of approaching sunset. Pines and 
cedars loomed dark against the pink glow, and 
canons gutted the majestic slopes of the White 
Mountains which converged into a green cup of 
mesa land. 

In that cup lay Fort Apache. 

Geronimo’s eyes focussed on the distant parade 
ground which was the heart of the garrison. Around 
that green square were rows of buildings. He knew 
them all. A trig line of white cottages told where 
the officers lived; across, and facing these quarters, 
stood long barracks which sheltered the enlisted 
men: adjutant’s office, signal office, quartermaster’s, 
and the commissary building flanked the third 
side. 

A sentinel paced slowly to and fro the length of a 
little guardhouse. Back and above it stood the 
hospital, luminous with white paint and the windows 
flickering red in the fading day. 

Geronimo’s flat mouth twitched. 

The seasoned white cavalrymen, who knew the 
Apache trails, had gone away and in their stead were 


THE WEB 


3 


new soldiers—black men who were strangers to the 
Apaches and their country. Only a little copper 
wire connected Fort Apache with Holbrook, the rail¬ 
road station ninety miles to the north as the crow 
flies. Sixty miles south of the garrison lay Fort 
Thomas. There were no habitations between. 

The mountains around Fort Apache were dotted 
with wickiups which were grouped according to 
tribes. And these villages reached away from the 
garrison and stretched here and there on the banks of 
creeks tributary to the river. During the day the 
Indians wandered at will within the garrison limits, 
and at night they flitted silently about, evading the 
sentinels while women and children slept with no 
thought of danger. 

The lower rim of the sun touched the horizon. 
Clear and sweet, the call of a bugle drifted to the 
ear of the watcher on the cliff. He saw men form¬ 
ing into lines. Again the bugle notes rang. The 
crashing report of a cannon echoed and reechoed from 
the encircling mountains as the smoke floated hazily 
away. Slowly and gracefully the flag—emblem of a 
nation’s honour—fluttered from the tip of the tall 
staff until it reached three soldiers who waited with 
outstretched hands that the sacred folds might not 
touch the ground. 

Geronimo rose to his feet and nimbly made his 
way along the bluff until he reached his own wickiup. 
Once inside, he jerked off the red handkerchief and 


4 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

flicked it scornfully away. As he looked at it, his 
thin lips curled into a sneer. 

Dragging a pipe from his pocket he filled it with 
tobacco bought at the garrison store. Then, smok¬ 
ing, he waited. 

His face was stolid when the flap of his wickiup was 
lifted and two Indians entered. Silently the three 
regarded each other. 

Natchez, young, lithe, tall, stood before Geronimo, 
and the War Chief’s glance, apparently unobserving, 
lost no detail of the distinctly handsome face with its 
regular features and the air of dignity befitting the 
rank of Natchez, hereditary chief of the Chiricahuas. 

Josanie was an older man, keen-eyed, furtive-glanc¬ 
ing. He was too small a factor to act save in con¬ 
junction with the others. But Josanie, too, had his 
followers. 

In spite of their efforts the three Apaches were 
unable to conceal a gleam of interest when the ap¬ 
proach of steps caught their ears. Once again the 
flap of the wickiup was raised. Geronimo’s eyes 
narrowed. 

Mangus, the Big One! 

The newcomer met their gaze impassively. He 
was a power in his tribe and his right to chieftain¬ 
ship came through Mangus Colorado, the famous 
war chief of the former generation—a name that 
had spelled terror in Arizona, New Mexico, western 
Texas, and northern Mexico for many years. 


THE WEB 


5 


Silently the four Indians squatted on the ground, 
but Geronimo’s face did not betray his elation that 
Mangus had come. The conference began. 

Hours passed. 

Smoke curled upward from the wickiups of the 
waking Chiricahua village when the conference ceased 
at dawn; and each leader had pledged to join Geron- 
imo in one of the most carefully planned outbreaks 
that had ever been attempted in the history of the 
West. 

And while they had plotted, a large black spider, 
lured by the flickering light, swung on a silver thread 
until it touched the top of the wickiup. Swiftly 
it ran to a low-hanging twig. 

Up and down, over and across, the spinner wove 
the web until its frail beauty barred the entrance, as 
though the place were deserted. 

The Indians arose to their feet. Geronimo, turn¬ 
ing, saw the web. With a swift gesture he brushed it 
aside. His moccasined foot crushed the spinner. 
Silently the Apaches went their way. Geronimo 
watched them go; satisfaction shone in his eyes as he 
looked down at the sleeping garrison. The fools! 
They had thought to hold him, but he would thrust 
them aside as he had brushed aside the web. 

Blinded by egotism, Geronimo believed that he had 
taken the first step on the way to absolute dictator¬ 
ship over Natchez, Mangus, and the entire tribes. 
He knew that there were forty thousand Indians 


6 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

peopling Arizona and New Mexico. Though the 
majority of these different tribes were peaceably 
inclined, each tribe held a percentage of lawless 
spirits who were ready to throw their fortunes with 
any successful hostile band. 

The Chiricahuas and Warm Springs Apaches 
occupied the same reservation at Fort Apache and 
were friendly to each other. Together they num¬ 
bered over four hundred, and all were ripe for 
mischief. Turbulent, defiant, and desperate, the 
Chiricahuas, though the smallest band numerically, 
dominated all the others through sheer terrorism. 

The White Mountain Apaches, while sharing the 
same reservation, feared and avoided the Chirica¬ 
huas. 

On the San Carlos Reservation, forty miles south 
of Fort Thomas, dwelt the San Carlos, the Yuma, and 
the Mohave Apaches, all of whom were friendly to 
the Chiricahuas, and who would aid and abet them 
even if they did not openly join a war party. 

Geronimo, standing in the dim dawn of a May 
morning, dreamed of combining all of these forces 
into one immense band that should drive every white 
person out of Arizona Territory and leave it to his 
despotic rule. 

But he did not know that Natchez, with superior 
intelligence, had deliberately planned that Geroni- 
mo’s authority should appear paramount. Natchez 
understood full well that sooner or later the soldiers 


THE WEB 


7 


would subjugate the Chiricahuas, and when that day 
should come, Geronimo, the puppet of Natchez, 
would be held responsible for the atrocities com¬ 
mitted during the outbreak. 

Across the entrance of the wickiup the broken 
strands of the spider web were stirred by the morn¬ 
ing breeze, but no one knew that another web was 
being woven by the hand of Destiny—a web with 
intangible filaments too strong for any man to break. 
Its delicate threads were to be flung to far-distant 
places, to touch the lives of many whose names would 
be written on the pages of history, and to wrap about 
others who would pass into obscurity. 

And in the very centre of that strange web was 
woven the life of a girl—Bonita Curtice. 


Chapter II 
Bonita 

B ONITA opened her eyes and lay framed in her 
tangled mass of dark curls, lulled by the 
jarring rhythm of the train. 

Hours before she had lifted the shade to watch the 
desert stars that seemed so near. Heavy fragrance 
drifted through her window from where the blossom¬ 
laden yuccas towered dimly, like unlighted tapers 
upon the altar of a sanctuary. 

“Hit’s fibe o’clock, Miss Cuhtice,” the porter’s 
voice whispered hoarsely from outside the agitated 
curtains of her berth. “Yo’ done tol’ me yo’ 
wanted me to be suah an’ wake yo’ up. De train’s 
on time.” 

Aware of the small dressing-room and the woman- 
filled car, of children to be washed and two over¬ 
dressed dames to be coiffed, Bonita became alert. 
Pinning up her long, thick hair, she slipped into a 
pale blue neglige, thrust her feet into soft slippers, 
and then, after a quick survey, assured that no man 
was in sight, hastened down the aisle. 

Half an hour later she picked her way back through 
8 


BONITA 


9 


billowing curtains, protruding feet—masculine and 
feminine—over obstructing luggage, and gained her 
own section, which the porter had already made up. 
He greeted her with a smile and lingered solicitously 
despite urgent demands for ladders voiced by ma¬ 
rooned occupants of upper berths. 

Bonita’s head was turned away from the aisle as 
the passengers descended, but in the little mirror 
between her windows she saw a foot shoot out like 
a battering ram, between the curtains of the opposite 
upper berth. Back and forth swung a trousered 
leg, the toes spread in prehensile groping. But 
there was neither branch of tree nor Pullman ladder. 
Evolution had done away with the branch and the 
porter had taken the steps. 

Bonita laughed. Only the racket of the rush¬ 
ing train kept the owner of the leg from hearing 
her. 

The foot was suddenly withdrawn and the face of a 
fat, red-whiskered man appeared like a wrathful sun 
god intent upon shrivelling the skunk who had taken 
away that ladder. The porter approached non¬ 
chalantly, steps in hand. 

“Heyah’s de laddah.” 

With red hair and wdiiskers bristling like an ori- 
flamme, the man descended as gracefully as a hippo¬ 
potamus* and clothed in little more than outraged 
dignity he careened out of sight. 

The long journey from a convent school to an 


10 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


Arizona garrison had been rather monotonous for a 
girl who was travelling alone, but now it was drawing 
to its close. Miles of alkali flat dotted with salt 
grass and browsing cattle flashed past. Silver threads 
of barbed-wire fences were strung parallel with the 
railroad track—leading-strings of civilization. 

From her window Bonita could see a few scattered 
adobe houses. She was coming home, but there 
would be neither father nor mother to welcome her 
there. Mist gathered in her dark eyes as she looked 
across the mesa, picturing a little graveyard of the 
Texas garrison where her mother had slept many 
years; and the official records of the army told her 
father’s fate during the Comanche warfare. 

Curtice, Boyd, 1 Lt. 10 Cav. 6 Nov. 1874 near Ft. Sill Ind. T. 
Killed. 

Just one printed line—nothing more. 

The adobe houses were closer now. The shrill 
warning of the engine and grinding of brakes on the 
wheels brought Bonita to her feet and she followed 
the porter to the platform. Curiously she noted 
the row of little stores, where ponies with dangling 
reins hunched nervous backs and squirmed side- 
wise and eyed the train distrustfully. Groups of 
bow-legged cowboys sauntered out of stores and 
saloons; for the daily passenger, whether east bound 
or west, was an important event in the little town of 
Willcox. 


BONITA 


11 


The train stopped. 

With a cry of joy Bonita ran down the steps and 
flung herself into the arms of Mrs. Duncan, while 
Captain Duncan beamed paternally over his wife’s 
statuesque shoulder at their ward. 



Chapter III 
Ready and Forward 

W HILE the Duncans were welcoming Bonita 
a Negro soldier gathered the hand luggage 
from the platform and transferred it to the 
front of the covered vehicle. The trunk was slipped 
into the buckled canvas “boot” at the back. 

The driver cracked his long-lashed whip and the 
four trig mules trotted briskly down the dust-clouded 
street. Back of the ambulance a soldier rode. His 
pistol holster sagged heavily on the cartridge belt 
and a carbine was slung in its leather scabbard at the 
side of his saddle. 

Mrs. Duncan and the captain settled down for the 
twenty-seven-mile drive to Fort Grant, but Bonita 
was eagerly alert and scanned with sparkling eyes 
the row of low adobe buildings which formed the 
principal street of Willcox. Irregular rows of houses, 
built far apart, like a mouth with many front teeth 
missing, stood back of the main business street. 

Farther on, Mexican children stopped playing in 
the doorways of their adobe homes, where festooned 
strings of brilliant red peppers were drying in the sun. 
Mongrel dogs yapped. Their hair bristled in ridges 
12 


READY AND FORWARD 


13 


along their backs, but though their barks were brave, 
their tails were between their legs, and they did not 
pursue. 

Sombre women with black shawls over their heads 
raised soft Spanish eyes to watch the ambulance 
rattle out of the little town and turn to the east on to 
a road that wound through the broad, undulating 
valley north to Fort Grant. 

“That highest peak with the snowcap is Mount 
Graham.” The captain indicated the landmark 
with a wave of his hand. “Fort Grant lies directly 
at its base.” 

“Isn’t this a wonderful country!” Bonita ex¬ 
claimed. “I wish I could make you understand how 
happy I am at coming back. I never wrote you how 
homesick I was, nor how I hated streets and brick 
walls and crowds of people. There were many nights 
when I actually cried to come back here.” 

She flung out her hands in a quick gesture and her 
voice vibrated tensely. 

“Why!”—Mrs. Duncan smiled at her—“you 
have never been in Arizona before.” 

“No. But the mountains are home, no matter 
where they may be. They seem like dear old 
friends. I love them all!” She turned impulsively 
and lifted Mrs. Duncan’s gloved hand against her 
cheek with a little caressing movement. “You and 
the regiment and the mountains! Nothing else 
means home to me.” 




14 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

The older woman withdrew her hand, and though 
she was moved out of her customary dignified re¬ 
serve, she spoke impersonally. “ Bonita, now that 
you are seventeen years old, you must learn to con¬ 
trol your emotions.” 

“I will try to do just what you would like, Aunt 
Marcia,” was the quick reply. “I am bubbling over 
to-day because I am so happy that my heart is sing¬ 
ing.” 

Captain Duncan, with a bluff man’s dread of senti¬ 
ment, hastened to remark: “Aunt Jane has been 
having conniption fits ever since you started for fear 
something might happen to you.” 

“Bless her loving, loyal old heart! I brought her 
a gorgeousome black silk dress!” 

“She was sure that the train would be ‘wrocked’ 
or that someone would kidnap you,” supplemented 
his wife. “She thinks she owns you, you know. 
But for that matter, so does the whole Tenth.” 

“It does!” Bonita nodded. “Are there many I 
used to know stationed at Grant?” 

“Hold on,” the officer commanded the driver, who 
pulled the mules to a stand. 

“What is the matter?” Mrs. Duncan inquired. 

“I’m going to get on the driver’s seat and smoke in 
peace while you inventory the garrison. If Bonita 
has not changed, I know she’ll find out every¬ 
thing I want to keep to myself. It’s too much 
risk!” 


READY AND FORWARD 


15 


“Coward!” taunted the girl gaily. 

“Discretion is the better part of valour,” he re¬ 
torted. 

Laughing, they watched him exit, and as the am¬ 
bulance started again, Mrs. Duncan and her ward 
settled down for a comfortable chat concerning the 
families at Fort Grant. But even while asking and 
answering questions, Bonita was absorbing the de¬ 
tails of the scene around her. 

Sometimes they skirted a small ranch with its 
brown adobe walls and red roof of corrugated iron, 
adjoining thick, mud-walled corrals and guarded by 
the inevitable Perkins’ windmill creaking noisily in 
the light breeze. 

They travelled over a smooth road on either side of 
which white-faced Hereford cattle lifted their heads 
and gazed placidly after them. 

At this time of the year the native grasses, growing 
luxuriantly, were flecked with wild flowers, and the 
deep yellow blossoms, called by the Mexicans “Cup of 
Gold” clustering thickly in spots, gave the impression 
of a fairy banquet from which the revellers had fled, 
leaving their golden goblets behind. 

“How sweet the yuccas are!” Bonita exclaimed, 
as the tall stalks, tipped with pyramids of bloom-like 
bells of delicately carved ivory, swayed in the breeze 
and filled the air with fragrance. 

“Roy said he would ride out to meet us,” Mrs. 
Duncan remarked as the girl settled back in the seat. 


16 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


“Mounted drill and other duties kept him. There is 
no first lieutenant in our troop, so Roy and his father 
cannot be absent at the same time.” 

“I wonder if I shall know him?” Bonita mused. 
“Five years make a big difference in everybody!” 

“He has changed much more than you have,” 
Roy’s mother smiled. 

A group of cowboys driving a small bunch of stock 
rode toward them. 

“I am wild to get on a horse once again,” Bonita 
said, without taking her eyes from the horsemen. 
Another rider came into sight. He reached the cow- 
punchers, passed them, and galloped rapidly toward 
the ambulance. 

“Isn’t that Roy?” 

Without waiting reply from Roy’s mother, Bonita 
waved her handkerchief. The horseman jerked off 
his cap and made a few passes in the air. The girl 
recognized the code of their childhood days. 

“What regiment?” wigwagged the cap. 

“Tenth! Ready and Forward!” her handkerchief 
signalled in reply. Bonita laughed delightedly. 
She had not forgotten. 

The young officer dashed up on his handsome bay 
horse. The wind blew his dark brown hair from his 
forehead; brown eyes looked into hers. 

“By Jove! It’s good to have you home, Nita!” 
He held her hand while his horse cavorted beside the 
wheel. 


READY AND FORWARD 


IT 


She lifted her other hand in official salute. “Lieu¬ 
tenant Mustachio!” 

Roy’s smile was his only reply as he reined his horse 
into a cavalry trot beside the ambulance. 

The cattle herd had passed, and as another rider 
loomed indistinctly back of the dust haze, Roy rose 
in his stirrups, waved his arm, and shouted, “Come 
along, old man!” 

The cowpuncher galloped up expectantly. 

“It was a mistake,” explained the lieutenant. “I 
thought you were a friend of ours ” 

“You’re darned dead right it was a mistake,” the 
other retorted emphatically. “Cowmen ain’t no 
friends of soldiers—leastways, not till you fellers 
round up Geronimo!” 

The man dug his big spurs into his pony’s sweating 
sides and raced after the cowherd. 

Roy scanned the horizon. “Now, where in the 
devil is Jerry?” he muttered. 



Chapter IV 

A Daughter of the Regiment 

E SCORTED by Roy, the ambulance with the 
Duncans and Bonita rattled along the drive¬ 
way in front of the officers’ line and stopped 
before a large double house of gray stone. 

It was known as The Folly and reputed to be 
haunted, though why and how no one had ever 
satisfactorily explained. But the double distinction 
of a ghost and a name instead of a mere number 
made the Duncans’ quarters quite exclusive. Jane 
scorned the implied “ha’nt,” and was regarded with 
awe by more timid “culled ladies” on the back line 
and along Suds’ Row. 

The old woman, wearing her best black silk dress, a 
fluted white apron fastened about her thin waist, and 
an immaculate cap perched on her grizzled head, 
waited respectfully within the front hall as Bonita 
jumped from the ambulance and ran up the six steps 
to the porch—to the door—to Aunt Jane’s welcoming 
arms. 

“Bress yo’, honey-chile! You’se suah a sight fo’ 
so’ eyes, caze dey done git well when dey see yo’!” 
18 


A DAUGHTER OF THE REGIMENT 19 


the old woman exclaimed rapturously, holding the 
girl away and studying the radiant face. “De 
Lawd’s bin moughty good ter let me see yo’ sunsetty 
face ergen. Lawsy, we all suah done miss yo’!” 

Jane wiped her eyes and shuffled down the long 
hall toward the kitchen, but she could not resist 
turning more than once to glance backward in her 
flight. 

She had nursed many children in her long life, and 
at nightfall, when she sat alone, a group of little white- 
robed figures seemed to gather about her. Children 
whom she had nursed and loved years long past. 
Many of them had wandered to far-distant lands i 
others had gone to sleep in narrow beds, tired from 
the daytime play and the grief of broken toys. 

But to Jane they were always the same as when 
their heads had rested on her flat breast. Always 
“meh babies.” She had loved them all, but none of 
them had ever crept so deeply into her heart as had 
Bonita Curtice. 

Night after night, while the girl had been away at 
school for five years. Aunt Jane’s prayer had never 
varied and never been omitted. “Good Lawd, bress 
meh honey-chile an’ tek cay ah ob her an’ mek her 
happy. Amen.” 

To-day, as she stirred and mixed and baked, 
Jane’s cup of joy overflowed. 

At daybreak the next morning Bonita awoke at 
the cannon’s salute and the bugle’s sounding reveille. 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


20 

The familiar call, heard for the first time after 
five years, was like a welcome home, and long before 
the breakfast hour she was dressed and on the front 
porch. Each detail of the day’s routine revived her 
memories. 

It was true that she had not been in this garrison 
before; but only the houses and the view across the 
valley to the distant amethyst peaks differed from her 
recollections of other frontier posts. In those by¬ 
gone days of regimental promotion a man remained 
in the same regiment from the time of his graduation 
at West Point until he was a portly, gray-haired 
officer. So most of those who called that first night 
to welcome the girl back to her own were men and 
women who had known her babyhood—men and 
women to whom she would always be “ Bonita Curtice 
of the Tenth.” 

Mrs. Duncan and the girl had breakfast alone, as 
the men of the family had eaten earlier and would not 
return from their various duties until midday. 

The meal was a leisurely one, and while they 
lingered at the table, old Jane, brimming with im¬ 
portance and mystery, summoned Bonita to the back 
porch where she found gray-headed Sergeant Faulk¬ 
ner, who had held her in his arms when she had been 
two days old. Quick tears dimmed her eyes, and the 
old soldier seemed to be afflicted with a cold. 

Back of him, rigidly correct, stood the old Negro 
soldiers of her dead father’s troop. 


A DAUGHTER OF THE REGIMENT 21 

“We all done come ter pay our respec’s, Miss 
Bonita,” Faulkner announced with great dignity, 
“an’ we all wants ter tell yo’ dat we’se moughty 
glad yo’ done come back ter de Reg’munt.” 

Bonita shook each hand, calling every man by name 
and reminding him of many escapades of long ago 
which set them all chuckling. 

Faulkner was the Homer of the regiment, and when 
he told its glories, three names were always men¬ 
tioned—Grierson, Curtice, and Miles; but Miles, 
though not of the Tenth Cavalry, was Faulkner’s 
Ulysses; and the story of the Comanche Campaign 
was his Odyssey, into which was woven the name of a 
baby girl. 

It was an emotion-filled reunion for all concerned. 
And when the men had gone back to their barracks, 
Faulkner sat on the edge of his bunk and spun his 
yarn for the benefit of the “rookies” who gathered 
around him—new men, who did not yet know the 
annals of the Fighting Tenth. 

“Jackson an’ me wuz in de Thu’ty-ninth Inf’ry 
when hit wuz o’gnized in sixty-six, an’ Lieut’nt 
Cuhtice done belonged ter hit when Miss Bonita wuz 
borned,” rambled Faulkner. “De next yeah de 
Thu’ty-ninth wuz con—sol—i—dated wif de Fo’tieth 
and made inter de Twenty-fif’, and den Lieut’nt 
Cuhtice wuz ’signed to de Tenth Cav’ry. Miss 
Bonita wuz jes’ two yeahs ol’ when her paw jined 
de Tenth, an’ she jined it wif him. 


22 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

“Ah recommember,” he went on musingly, sure of 
his audience, “de bery fustest time dat Aunt Jane 
done let me tote Miss Bonita down ter show to de 
troop. Dat baby wuz on’y six weeks ol’, but she 
nebber cry a tall. An’ dere warn’t a man in de troop 
dat er day dat wou’dn’t of died fo’ her aftah she done 
squinch up dem big black eyes at dem all and smile 
lak she thought it a big joke. She wuz de spunkiest 
chile Ah eber seed.” 

“We all ain’t gwineter forgit how she done follow 
her paw aroun’ an’ stan’ an’ salute wif him,” grinned 
Jackson. “An’ dat day when Lieutennt-colonel 
Davidson wuz in command ob de post while General 
Grierson wuz on leab! Ah wuz orderly and Ah seen 
dat chile come marchin’ down de front line wif all de 
chillun ob de garrison, white an’ cullud. But yo’ 
cain’t tell which wuz white an’ which wuz black, 
caze she done plastered all ob deyah faces wif mud, 
jes’ lak her own. An’ she knock at de doah and 
salutes de colonel an’ says, ‘I’se got some recruits fo’ 
de Tenth Cav’ry.’ De colonel, he neber bat his eye 
but says solemn as yo’ please, ‘Thank yo’, Lieutenant 
Cuhtis.’ Den he ups an’ gibs her some money an’ 
says to tek de recruits down to de pos’ trader stoah 
and git some candy. Dat’s how came we all calls 
Miss Bonita de additional second lieutenant ob de 
Tenth Cav’ry.” 

Faulkner took up the theme when Jackson paused 
for breath. “Jes’ as soon as me an’ Jackson an’ 


A DAUGHTER OF THE REGIMENT 23 

Clark fin’ out dat Lieutenant Cuhtice is transfuh’d to 
de Tenth, we ast ter go long wif him. An’ den, sah, de 
hull troop hit hup an’ ast ter be transfuh’d, too, long 
wif we all. Dar wuz ten ob us got our transfuhs, 
but de res’ nachully bleeged ter gib hit hup. Aunt 
Jane, she transfuh’d, too, wif Miss Bonita. An’ 
dat’s howcome Miss Bonita belongs ter de Tenth 
Cav’ry.” 

“She suah do,” endorsed old Private Clark, who 
was a man of few words and a great admirer of 
Faulkner’s fluency. 

“’Tain’t bery long aftah dat Miss’ Cuhtice ups 
and dies, and den we all pitched in and holped Aunt 
Jane tek cay ah ob Miss Bonita. So did eberyone in 
de reg’munt, from de colonel down, ’twill Lieutenant 
Cuhtice wuz killed whilst he wuz fightin’ de Co- 
manches and Kiowas de time Colonel Nelson A. Miles 
whopped Quannah Parker, de Comanche chief. 
’Course aftah Miss Bonita’s paw and maw wuz bofe 
daid, she done belonged ter de hull reg’munt, but 
Cap’n Duncan he done took out gyardian papers fo’ 
her, so she knows she’s got a home wif dem.” 

“Ah specs she gwineter git mah’ied ter Lieuten¬ 
ant Roy someday,” Jackson commented. “’Mem¬ 
ber dat time he done kidnap her when she wuz a 
baby down at Ship Island and toted her home to his 
maw?” 

, Others besides Jackson grinned and shook with 
laughter, for Aunt Jane had sent them on a wild 


24 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


search over every possible place of concealment on the 
tiny strip of sand which formed the island. 

“Whar eber dat chile went, she suah done raise a 
commotion,” asserted Faulkner. Then still more 
positively he added, “An’ she’s gwineter raise one 
right heyah. You lissen ter me!” 

Mess call brought the men to their feet: 

“Soupy, soupy, soupy, without a single bean. 

Porky, porky, porky, without a strip of lean; 

Coffee, coffee, coffee, the meanest ever seen,” 

sang one of the “rookies” as they filed through the 
door. 


Chapter V 
A Mile a Minute 


F ORT GRANT, nestling at the foot of Mount 
Graham, was one of the largest garrisons in 
Arizona Territory. Five troops of the Tenth 
Cavalry were under their own major, but the entire 
garrison was commanded by Colonel Shafter of the 
First Infantry, and one company of his own regiment 
completed the force. 

A peculiar condition existed. The cavalrymen felt 
that their own colonel, Grierson, should have been 
assigned to command because the preponderance of 
the Tenth made Grant practically a cavalry post. 

Official relations, though apparently cordial, held 
an undercurrent of resentment, and the infantry 
commander was fully aware of the sentiment. This 
situation made each cavalry officer or private soldier 
more keenly anxious that no dereliction on his part 
should give opportunity for official reprimand from 
Colonel Shafter. 

From the wide, inviting porches of the officers’ 
homes was a view across the Sulphur Spring Valley 
to the Galiuro Mountains, twenty miles distant. 

25 


26 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

In the heart of this valley lay the Diamond H ranch, 
which was a village in itself, and constituted the 
headquarters for many smaller, tributary ranches, 
all of which were the property of a man who was 
counted the cattle king of Arizona. 

The hospitality of the rancher was as well known 
as his slogan—“No scrubs.” 

Officers stationed at Fort Grant were frequent 
guests at the ranch, and the cavalry officers espe¬ 
cially were able to appreciate the high-headed 
standard-bred trotters which were the pride of the 
rancher’s heart. 

To own and drive a single animal bred at the 
Diamond H ranch was the ambition of one and all, 
but Colonel Shatter was more ambitious. He wanted 
two, and to-day his ambition was realized. 

He had never thought when he was learning to 
drive the farm horses in Michigan, as a boy, that he 
would ever have a team like the one he now drove: 
Hambletonians with less than a three-minute gait, 
their shining flanks bearing the tiny H brand which 
stood for pedigree and speed. 

He was anticipating the joy of sending them full 
clip along the front line with the new Brewster buggy 
spinning behind them. A thousand apiece the 
bays had cost him. Stiff figure—but, by thunder! 
they were worth every penny. He wished he had 
someone to pace ’em a mile, as they had done on the 
speed track at the ranch. 


A MILE A MINUTE 


27 


A cloud of dust on the road caught his eye. As 
though some kindly genie had rubbed a magic lamp, 
out of the yellow haze emerged a fractious roan horse, 
and on its back sat a young officer. 

West Point spoke in the squared shoulders, and 
the easy poise said—cavalry, born and bred. The 
colonel recognized him. Here was a man of the 
right mettle—a horseman. 

The officer rode nearer, lifted his hand and saluted 
the colonel, who pulled the bays to a stand. 

“What do you think of my team, Lieutenant?” 

Lieutenant Gerald Stanley turned his horse and 
eyed the team critically from foretop to fetlock. 
Admiration was written plainly on his bronzed face 
and showed in the clear blue eyes. Shafter saw it. 

If Colonel Shafter had had a hand in writing the 
immortal Declaration of Independence he would have 
had it set forth: 

“All men who love horses are born free and equal.” 

“What can they do?” Stanley asked, still study¬ 
ing the fine points of the team. 

“Three minutes, or less, in this buggy with me,” 
announced the colonel proudly. 

It was something to brag about, for the colonel 
was colossal. At this moment he was proud of his 
weight for the first time in his life. The young 
officer glanced from the team to the colonel, recall¬ 
ing a remark he had overheard in the stables, when 
one ebon soldier had asserted that “de kunnel’s jes’ 


28 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


as tall when he’s a layin’ down on his back as when 
he’s standin’ hup on his feet.” 

“Great!” exclaimed Lieutenant Stanley. 

Shafter was no longer the commanding officer, he 
was a horseman. So was the lieutenant. 

“Want to pace ’em a mile?” challenged the Owner 
of the bays, the gambling light in his eyes. 

Stanley wavered. He had in mind a matter con¬ 
cerning a lady. 

The other saw hesitation. “Ten to one,” he de¬ 
clared. “A mile in three minutes!” 

“I take you.” 

The lieutenant dismounted and marked a starting 
point with his spurred heel. 

Tiswin snorted and shook his head as his owner 
lined him beside the bays. The officers compared 
watches. 

“Ready—go!” ordered the lieutenant. They went. 

The bays, with noses pointed, flew over the hard, 
smooth road as though their dainty hoofs scorned to 
touch it. Tiswin, running low, led them by a neck. 

“Get along—get along, you rascals!” urged the 
driver of the team. 

They trotted smoothly. Their satin flanks moving 
as though the steel muscles worked by machinery. 
Their nostrils expanded, they watched the nose of the 
roan pacemaker and lengthened their stride. Lieu¬ 
tenant Stanley, watch in hand, measured the dis¬ 
tance. He glanced at the steadily moving hoofs. 


29 


A MILE A MINUTE 

Not once had the furious gait been broken from the 
smooth-actioned trot. 

“Bully!” he cried. 

“They’ll do it in two forty-five,” shouted Shafter. 

“Three,” called the rider of the roan. 

And then out of the thick mesquite beside the road 
came a bugle blast, sudden and unexpected as the 
trumpet of the Archangel Gabriel. 

The bays leaped in air and whirled. 

Three? A mile a minute! 

Across the valley they headed toward the ranch. 
The colonel held manfully to the reins, but it was not 
a team he now drove, it was fright. Tiswin was no 
match in this race. 

A front wheel struck a yucca. 

The colonel’s portly body rose elliptically, reached 
perihelion, and descended to aphelion with a thud. 
Buggy seat, robe, and whip obeyed the immutable 
law of gravitation. 

Colonel William Rufus Shafter dented the desert 
and marked the finish of the race. 

Two thousand dollars’ worth of horseflesh was 
racing madly across the valley. What had been a 
five-hundred-dollar Brewster buggy a few minutes 
before was now first-class kindling. 

Tiswin and his rider approached. The officer on 
the ground gesticulated with both arms: “Get after 
’em! Get after ’em! They cost a thousand apiece!” 

Stanley swore under his breath, whirled about, and 


30 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

obeyed orders. But the team, freed of buggy and 
driver, were well on their way to the ranch, where 
such things as bugle calls were unknown. 

The colonel rose with imaginable difficulty and 
started toward the garrison. As an exponent of 
cause and effect he was a wonder. 

Yesterday a bugler had been two minutes late, 
and realizing this, had fumbled his call. 

The colonel, who had a fine ear for music, had 
fairly frothed at the mouth when discordant, jerky 
toots smote his ear. 

The orderly had been sent double-quick across the 
parade to summon the offender, who reported trem¬ 
blingly, his black face turning an ashy gray, his 
knees quaking. 

“You enlisted as a bugler?” the colonel had de¬ 
manded. 

“Yes, sah, Colonel. I’se been a-bugling three 
’listments.” 

“Well, you take that blankety-blank bugle of 
yours and go two miles out of the garrison and blow 
those calls from reveille to taps, until you know how 
to do it!” 

“Yes, sah. Colonel.” The bugler had saluted and 
withdrawn. He had practised. 

And Colonel Shatter, trudging now along the road, 
knew that he had practised well. 

Down the back line of the officers’ homes the 
commander limped painfully. Across the valley 


A MILE A MINUTE 


31 


Lieutenant Gerald Stanley raced after a Hamble- 
tonian team. The race ended at the stable door of 
the ranch, with the bays, neck-and-neck, two lengths 
ahead of Tiswin. 

The amazed rancher stood at the big stable door. 

“How are you, Lieutenant? What’s your haste?” 

“This team of yours got away from the colonel,” 
Jerry grinned. 

The story was soon told, and the ranchman slapped 
his knee and chuckled. Together they examined the 
lathered horses and found them uninjured, and left 
them to the stableman to be rubbed down and 
blanketed. 

It was sunset. A bell sounded. 

“ They ought to cool for an hour or so. Come on 
in and have dinner,” suggested the rancher. “Be¬ 
sides,” he added with another chuckle, “you’d 
better stay till after taps and get them to the stables 
before another bugle call.” 

“Darn it all, I wanted to get back,” the young 
officer grinned ruefully as they went into the court¬ 
yard together. “There’s a new girl in the garrison.” 


Chapter VI 
The Unexpected 

B ONITA had been away at a convent school 
, for five years, but the day after her return 
the very walls seemed to reflect her joyous 
youth, and Aunt Jane paused often in her work to 
listen to the snatches of song and girlish laughter. 

Mrs. Duncan, sitting sedately in the front room 
with a bit of embroidery in her hands, smoothed her 
carefully dressed hair after Bonita, bubbling with 
happiness, had danced into the room, whirled about, 
top-fashion, and suddenly flung her arms about 
her guardian’s shoulders and kissed her cheek. 

“Bonita”—there was a trace of irritation in the 
tone—“you really must not be so impetuous. I do 
not approve of emotional displays. But that does 
not mean that I care less for you or that you are not 
as welcome in our home as our own daughter would 
have been had she lived.” 

“I understand, Aunt Marcia,” the girl replied 
quietly. “I will try to remember.” 

She moved about the room for a few moments, 
pretending to arrange the sheets of music that she 
32 


THE UNEXPECTED 


33 


had just carried in from her trunk. Then slowly 
she returned to her own room where old Jane was 
importantly superintending Lewis, the striker, as he 
adjusted a loose window screen. 

“Dar now, honey-chile! Ain’t no wasp gwineter 
git in heyah. Ah recommember how scairt yo’ 
wuz ’bout ’em eber since yo’ an’ Mastah Roy done 
poked a stick inter de wasp nest. Lawsy! Lawsy!” 

“And I still am afraid of them, the nasty mean 
things!” 

Her shudder was no pose. Tarantulas might 
spring, centipedes scurry across the ftoor, and the 
diamond-backed rattler block her path; but not one 
of these was so terrible as a wasp. Already she had 
discovered that Fort Grant was well-populated with 
the pests. 

It was a busy day. Unpacking her trunks and 
arranging the mementos of school days about her 
walls and on the mantel, Bonita had no thought of 
anything else until Mrs. Duncan entered and sug¬ 
gested a short walk before dinner. Roy and his 
father had appeared at noon, only to vanish again, 
victims to official duties. 

Bonita, with white lace parasol above her hatless, 
curly head, walked sedately down the officers’ line 
beside Mrs. Duncan. But the girl’s eyes were 
keenly alert, and her mind was full of curiosity about 
Roy’s classmate who had been so mysteriously absent 
the previous day. 


34 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

Roy’s letters from the time he had entered the 
Academy had been full of enthusiasm about his 
classmate and friend. Their assignment to the same 
regiment had been a matter of jubilation with Roy, 
and among the treasures unpacked from Bonita’s 
trunk had been two large photographs of Roy and 
his friend, taken in their newly acquired cavalry 
uniforms just after they had been commissioned as 
officers. 

And Roy’s conversations with Stanley had given 
that young man a vague and conflicting impression 
of a dark-eyed girl with rebellious curls and a won¬ 
derful voice—a girl who could ride like a Comanche 
and make a marksman’s score on target range—a 
bully pal, but hardly the kind of girl one prefers in 
the ballroom or on a moonlit porch. 

Seventeen! She was neither child nor woman. 
An awkward age for any man who wishes to be 
polite to a girl on account of his friend—and espe¬ 
cially difficult with such a girl as Roy had describ-. 
ed most vividly. 

Stanley scowled as he strode along the walk, his 
sabre clanking at his heels, for he was officer of the 
day. He knew that it was up to him to make a formal 
call on Miss Curtice that evening, sometime between 
retreat and tattoo. The coming of this foster sister 
of Roy would break up much of the intimacy be¬ 
tween the two men and interfere with many care¬ 
free hours. 


THE UNEXPECTED 


35 


Immersed in gloomy forebodings, he stalked along, 
his eyes fixed upon the gravel walk, when suddenly 
he recoiled. 

A girl in white dress, brandishing a white lace 
parasol, had dashed full force against him. 

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” she gasped, waving the parasol 
in frantic circles and paying no attention to the man 
whose arms had caught her, and in fact, who still held 
her. 

Had he moved a step he would have literally 
dragged her by the hair of her head, for a strand of 
soft, curly brown hair was caught on an imposing 
brass button that bore a spread eagle and the letter C. 

“ Don’t move.” Stanley jerked off his white cotton 
glove and attempted to untangle the hair. 

“I know how Absalom felt,” a little ripple of 
laughter answered, and Stanley tried to get a glimpse 
of the lowered face. Roy was right. She had a 
wonderful voice. “A wasp was after me!” 

“Blessed wasp!” 

She glanced up sideways and he looked into 
twinkling brown eyes. His fingers were clumsy, but 
at last the curl was free. 

“Thank you,” she smiled. “I know you must be 
Lieutenant Stanley, Roy’s friend. I am Bonita 
Curtice.” 

“Bonita!” 

Mrs. Duncan was beside the girl. Stanley swept 
off his cap. Bonita saw that his light hair had a 


36 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


wave and a glint in it, and that his forehead was 
broad and fair where the vizor of his forage cap had 
shaded it from the Arizona sun. 

“Bonita,” the lady’s tones were exasperated, “you 
simply must learn to control your emotions.” 

The culprit flushed guiltily, and Mrs. Duncan’s 
all-seeing eyes moved from the girl to the young 
officer. “There is a long hair on the button of your 
blouse, Mr. Stanley.” 

He looked down. “Oh, yes! That is my decora¬ 
tion of the Ancient and Honourable Order of the 
Wasp,” he announced solemnly. 

Mrs. Duncan sniffed, if dignity such as hers ever 
did sniff. Bonita’s eyes danced with laughter and a 
dimple appeared on guard beside a tempting mouth. 

The older woman bowed formally. “Come, 
Bonita.” 

The girl obediently resumed the interrupted 
promenade, but Stanley turned from the direction 
in which he had been hurrying before the collision. 

“You were not going our way, Mr. Stanley?” 
Mrs. Duncan’s voice and eyes challenged him to 
deny the charge. 

“I wasn’t but I am,” came his prompt reply, and 
he gazed at her serenely as he fell into step beside the 
girl. 

Stanley was irrepressible, but the little air of self- 
assurance was not egotism. It was the unconscious 
outcropping of youth that had found life a smooth 


THE UNEXPECTED 


37 

path; youth that had accepted without question the 
favours of the gods, totally unaware that such things 
were favours. 

Militantly Mrs. Duncan edged between them, 
but her compressed lips had no effect on the gay 
spirits of Bonita and Stanley. They reached the 
gate of The Folly, and as the young officer lifted his 
cap, Bonita held out her hand impulsively. Mrs. 
Duncan’s frown was unobserved. 

“I will see you this evening at the hop.” Stanley 
was still holding the girl’s hand and smiling down 
into her face. ‘‘Please save a lot of dances for 
me.” 

“Come, Bonita,” warned a voice from the porch. 
^Dinner will soon be ready.” 

“I’ll save all I can.” Then, with a swift glance at 
Mrs. Duncan’s vanishing back, she added quickly: 
“All that Aunt Marcia will let me save.” 

Running into the house Bonita lost no time in 
gaining her own room and opening her closet. Breath¬ 
lessly she gloated over the array of dainty frocks— 
white, blue, rose—and slippers to match. She clasped 
her hands in girlish delight. 

Which should she wear for her first dance? 

Old Jane loomed anxiously. “Honey-chile, yo’ 
dinnah is gittin’ spiled, an’ Miss’ Duncan done sent 
me to tell yo’ she’s waitin’, an’ de captain an’ 
Mister Roy, dey’s waitin’, too.” 

Even as Bonita obeyed the summons, she turned 


38 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

to cast a final glance at the gowns visible in the 
closet. The blue one—the rose—the white- 

Not until dinner was over did she decide upon the 
rose gown, and as she danced down the hallway of the 
Folly her heart kept time with her feet. 

Though a pen be dipped in the colours of the rain¬ 
bow to write a description of a girl’s first dance in an 
army garrison, the words would look sombre, and 
when Bonita returned home that night Aunt Jane, 
unfastening the rose-coloured gown, gazed with 
adoring eyes at the radiant face. 

“Honey-chile, did yo’ done hab a nice time a- 
dancin’?” 

“ Oh, it was wonderful! Wonderful!” she answered 
softly, and her eyes sparkled brilliantly. 

After the girl had been tucked into bed, the old 
woman puttered about, hanging up the gown and 
arranging the room. 

“Ah cain’t fin’ one ob yo’ glubs,” she announced 
finally. 

“Oh, never mind it. I have lots more. Good¬ 
night.” 

But at that very moment, down in a room of the 
bachelors’ quarters, Lieutenant Gerald Stanley was 
contemplating a long white kid glove. The fingers 
curved as though a warm, small hand were still within 
the soft kid. 

“I’ll give it back to her in the morning,” he 
remarked virtuously, as though that were not the 



THE UNEXPECTED 39 

very reason why he had surreptitiously appropriated 
the article. 

Even Mrs. Duncan could not object to having a 
lost glove returned as soon as possible. Why, Miss 
Curtice might be worried over losing it! 


Chapter VII 

The Barbed-wire Lane 


B ONITA, dressed in her riding habit, came out 
on the porch of The Folly and stood looking 
across the valley to where the purple-shad¬ 
owed mountains cut a jagged line against the clear 
blue sky. The lure of long, dim trails enthralled 
her, and there were few days that she did not gallop 
across the flat or ride up the steep trail to the top 
of Mount Graham. And always Roy and Jerry 
rode with her. 

She went down the steps to where the three horses 
now waited. Her own horse, Don, twisted his neck 
and watched Roy jerk the sidesaddle. Slowly 
Don inflated his sides as Roy’s forefinger slipped 
beneath the girth. But the young officer was wise 
to Don’s tricks, and tightened the girth without 
pity. 

Bonita always insisted that “when you know a 
horse there is nothing to fear from him,” and she 
knew Don. Another authority on horses, even 
among cavalrymen, was Captain Kern, Stanley’s 
troop commander. It was an axiom of Kern’s 

40 


THE BARBED-WIRE LANE 


41 


that “A man is known by the company he keeps— 
and a rider by his horse.” 

And the three horses waiting at the gate of the 
Folly were as different as their owners. 

Don, high-headed and hard-mouthed when coerced, 
was a bay of Kentucky breeding, with racing in¬ 
stincts from his mother and speed beyond that of any 
other horse at Fort Grant. 

Stanley’s spirited mount had been well-named 
Tiswin, after an intoxicant made by the Apache 
Indians. This liquor was produced from a mash 
made of young green corn or barley, crushed and 
allowed to ferment. The insidious drink was cal¬ 
culated to rouse the worst traits of Apaches or whites. 
Tiswin, prohibited by the Government, was brewed 
secretly, and when tiswin was ripe, trouble loomed 
for soldiers and settlers. 

Tiswin, Stanley’s horse, was a large strawberry 
roan with muscles that bunched and quivered under 
a sleek skin. Racing blood and mustang had pro¬ 
duced a one-man horse with endurance, speed, and 
intelligence. He had been classed as an “outlaw” 
at the Diamond H ranch, and the young officer had 
bought the horse at half his real value; but even that 
had been a stiff figure for a second lieutenant. 

Comet, the third horse, was a stolid, handsome 
trooper, reliable under every test. The name had 
been selected by Stanley, not because of Comet’s 
speed but because of the long, flowing tail; and Roy 


42 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

Duncan accepted Stanley’s choice of name for the 
horse. 

Bonita, in conventional riding habit, jockey cap, 
and white gauntlets, slipped a loop over her right 
wrist: from this guard hung a delicately carved 
ivory-handled whip—a gift from Jerry Stanley. 
Her right hand grasped the horn of her sidesaddle, 
the left rested on Roy’s shoulder. Stooping, he held 
his left palm for her foot, and she rose lightly to the 
saddle. 

The three riders swung at a brisk gallop from the 
garrison, past the stables, and turned on a road that 
led toward the valley. 

They had ridden several miles when Don became 
restive. Snorting, he shook his head and began to 
fight the bit. But Bonita, familiar with his tricks, 
pulled him down to an even gait with the other 
horses. Though he appeared submissive for a 
short distance, there were red flecks of anger in his 
eyes. Then he thrust his nose forward violently, 
twisted his lean neck, took the bit in his teeth, and 
bolted. 

Bonita flung a merry word and a laugh over her 
shoulder. 

“Don’t try to keep up with me!” she called, and 
was off like the wind with the two men following her. 

Jerry and Roy knew that her saddle was firm; 
but a five-strand barbed wire fence, bristling with 
vicious points only a few inches apart, was tautly 


THE BARBED-WIRE LANE 43 

stretched on either side of the road, and presented a 
terrible danger if Don should indulge in his trick of 
jumping sidewise. On the unfenced flat the girl 
could handle him in any emergency. 

Why on a prairie the lane had been made so narrow 
was a mystery to all save the man who had built the 
fences. Only one horseman could safely pass a 
single team, while miles of prairie reached on either 
side of the road. 

Confident of the girl’s horsemanship, her com¬ 
panions kept far enough back to give her a clear 
field but not too far away to reach her in case of an 
emergency. 

The road lay straight ahead to the end of the 
reservation, four miles beyond the fort. There the 
wire lane terminated, and a little general store which 
faced it compelled a sharp turn. As the riders 
neared the store a drunken man reeled out of it, 
climbed uncertainly on the seat of an open buck- 
board, and turned his team toward the lane. 

The half-broken broncos pulled back against the 
breast-pole. Muddled with liquor, the driver laid 
his whip furiously across their flanks. The team 
reared and lunged madly down the lane toward 
Bonita, who tried to rein her horse sharply to the 
right of the team, preferring to be brushed against 
the wheels of the vehicle, if it came to that, rather 
than the barbs on the stirrup side of her saddle. 

Jerry, keenly alert, turned white and caught his lip 


44 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


between his teeth to keep from crying out. But he 
heard Roy’s startled exclamation. 

“God!” 

Then Tiswin leaped under the spurs. 

Don held stubbornly to the middle of the road. 

The driver of the buckboard, suddenly sobered, 
struggled to control his fright-crazed team. It was 
useless. The light rig careened from side to side—* 
a collision was inevitable. 

Then above the noise of the rattling wagon and 
clanking harness, above the pounding of galloping 
hoofs of five maddened horses racing furiously, 
the man on Tiswin heard her calling to him: 

“Jerry!” 

Goaded by merciless spurs, the roan horse gained 
by terrific bounds. Slowly his nose crept past 
Don’s flanks and reached his shoulder. 

Neck and neck the two horses ran. The dust from 
their flying hoofs filled the air. 

The driver of the buckboard saw them coming and, 
with a hoarse cry, dropped the reins of his team and 
threw his arm across his face. The lines dragged on 
the ground. 

Jerry’s heart was in his throat, but he thrilled with 
pride at the dauntless figure that faced the approach¬ 
ing team. Her one swift glance met his; there was 
no fear in her eyes. 

He shifted his reins to his right hand. Under¬ 
standing, she freed her foot from the slipper-stirrup; 


THE BARBED-WIRE LANE 


45 


in a moment he had caught and lifted her from Don’s 
back to his own saddle. 

Bonita, who had never fainted in her life, lay white 
and still in Stanley’s arms. Half-dazed, she heard 
him whisper her name; then she knew that his lips 
touched her cheek, but she did not open her eyes. 

Then she heard Roy’s anxious voice, “Is she all 
right?” 


Chapter VIII 
Juana Gonzales 

B ONITA sat on the porch, an open book on her 
lap. But the romance written on the pages 
was forgotten in her day dreams. 

A familiar whistled strain woke her suddenly, and a 
flush mounted her cheeks as she turned to watch for 
the whistler. But the thick clinging vines shut 
him from sight. She waited. 

The steps slowed near the gate of The Folly, 
turned toward the porch, and came up the stair. 

“That pink dress of yours would be a bad thing to 
wear if you were out scouting,” commented Stanley, 
seating himself on the top step of the porch as the 
girl deserted the rocker and sat down near him. 

But conversation was prevented by a childish voice 
calling insistently, “Miss Bonita! Miss Bonita!” 

“Why, here’s Dorothy!” The girl turned with a 
smile and held out her hand. 

But five-year-old Dorothy’s hand was firmly held 
by a Mexican girl, whose face, though pretty, was 
coarse and sullen. The child battled determinedly. 
“ You lemme alone! I wanner go to Miss Bonita!” 

46 


JUANA GONZALES 47 

“What on earth is the matter?” Bonita hastened 
down the steps. 

“Her mother wants her and she won’t come.” 
The maid’s voice was more angry than the occasion 
seemed to warrant. 

“I won’t—I won’t—I won’t!” wailed the rebel, 
increasing her efforts to break away. 

The nursemaid picked her up bodily, but small 
fists and kicking feet beat such a fierce tattoo that the 
girl set her down with considerable emphasis. The 
child rushed to Bonita, clinging and crying. 

“What is it, Dorothy?” Bonita put her arm 
around the little figure and brushed the curls back 
from the tear-drenched eyes. 

“I don’t wanner go home. I want to stay wif you.” 

“She was running away and Mrs. Crane sent me 
after her,” the Mexican girl explained sullenly. 

“Oh, I’ll tell you what to do.” Bonita spoke 
brightly. “You go home now with Juana, and to¬ 
morrow morning bring your doll and dishes and 
we’ll have a tea party. I’ll coax Aunt Jane to make 
some little cakes and I’ll tell you a new story!” 

“What about?” Already Dorothy’s troubles had 
vanished in the alluring prospect. 

“Wait and see”—mysteriously. 

“I wanner stay now.” 

“No, dear. I am going riding this morning, so 
you must run along with Juana and come to-morrow 
morning.” 


48 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


Satisfied, Dorothy lifted her face for the customary 
kiss; then waving her chubby hand she skipped down 
the front line toward her home. The Mexican girl 
lingered, but she was not looking at Dorothy or 
Bonita. Her mocking, provocative glance was upon 
the face of the man beyond Bonita’s shoulder— 
Jerry Stanley. 

Although not catching the meaning of that stare, 
instinctively Bonita crimsoned. Juana tilted her 
head slightly and turned slowly away, but cast a 
lingering side glance at the man. A smile was on her 
lips as she swung voluptuously on her way. Bonita 
looked after the departing figure. How dared Juana 
Gonzales look at Jerry in that way! 

It is difficult now to hark back to the demure 
’eighties, when innocence and ignorance were sy¬ 
nonyms, and a girl was kept until her marriage morn¬ 
ing completely unaware of the mysteries of love and 
life—matters which to-day are open books. Adher¬ 
ing strictly to mid-Victorian standards, Mrs. Dun¬ 
can had kept all knowledge of evil from the girl who 
was her ward. Five years in a convent had nur¬ 
tured the same ideal. All of Bonita’s short life it 
had been everybody’s business to keep her like the 
sleeping princess in the enchanted garden. Yet a 
prince had found and wakened her with the touch of 
his lips. 

And with that kiss had awakened knowledge and 
the heart of a woman ready to share any fate— 


JUANA GONZALES 49 

pillow of earth, tent of stars, primitive hardships of 
frontier army post, dangers along wagon trail, desert 
sand, rugged mountains, isolated garrisons, with 
always the menace of lurking Indians. But far 
greater than any and all of these, the courage to let 
go of best-loved hands when duty called. 

It was this newly awakened Bonita who stared 
after the Mexican girl. 

“I have to work on my muster rolls.” 

Jerry’s voice roused her to the consciousness 
that he was standing beside her. The touch of 
formality in his voice woke a feeling of restraint of 
which both became suddenly aware as Stanley went 
on his way. 

Bonita’s eyes held a thoughtful look as she turned 
into the Folly. 

Stanley was also thoughtful when he reached his 
own quarters and entered his unlocked room, where 
there was nothing to tempt a thief: an army bunk 
similar to those in the barracks but with a white 
spread on it; a quartermaster’s dresser painted dark 
brown; a plain wooden table covered with a large 
blue blotter; three yellow wooden chairs, also the 
property of the Government, as was attested when 
the chairs, inverted, displayed the burnt letters 
Q. M. D. 

These articles of furniture, with a rough rack for 
books, constituted Lieutenant Gerald Stanley’s 
home. 


50 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


It was no easy pull for even a chap who did not 
drink or sit in at the great American game of poker 
to get out of the unavoidable debts incurred at 
graduation through having to buy numerous ex¬ 
pensive uniforms and equipments; especially for a 
cavalryman, who was compelled to have high-priced 
riding boots, saddle, and a horse. 

Stanley surveyed the room. Then, jerking off his 
cap he tossed it on the bunk and sat down at the 
table. For a while he sat industriously covering 
clean sheets of paper with pencil marks, his eye¬ 
brows knit as though he were deep in military 
problems of national importance. Large sheets of 
muster rolls lay on the table, but the figures that 
absorbed him had no connection with them. 

The problem he was trying to solve was how long 
it would take a second lieutenant of the Tenth 
Cavalry to get out of debt and save enough money to 
furnish the one room and kitchen to which his rank 
entitled him; and, if the garrison were not crowded, 
he might get an extra room. 

Muster rolls were the devil but they were nothing 
in comparison to the other problem that he faced. 


Chapter IX 

Geronimo’s Crimson Trail 

I T WAS the second week in June when the rene¬ 
gade Apaches encamped in the State of Sonora, 
Mexico, a short distance from Guadalupe Canon, 
where a few days earlier they had surprised a de¬ 
tachment of three troops of the Fourth Cavalry 
under Captain Hatfield, from whom they obtained 
much plunder. 

Among other articles, a number of new-style guns 
with pistol-clutch stocks had created great interest 
among Geronimo’s followers, and as the plunder 
from the fight was added to the spoils of various 
raids in Arizona and Mexico, each of the Apaches 
watched eagerly, hoping that one of these guns might 
fall to his share. 

Of the three piles arranged, Mangus laid no claim 
to any spoils collected in Arizona Territory. That 
had been agreed upon at the start of the outbreak. 

The perfunctory harmony that existed at first 
between Natchez, Geronimo, Josanie, and Mangus 
had soon grown into open distrust on the part of 
Mangus, and now only a breath was necessary to fan 
51 


52 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


the smouldering spark of hostility into a flame of 
bitter enmity. 

It was no secret to any of the Chiricahuas that the 
followers of Mangus had shared his reluctance to 
join Geronimo. White men as well as Indians were 
aware of the craftiness and unreliability of the old 
medicine man. But when Mangus had hesitated to 
take part in the outbreak, Geronimo had reminded 
him of a pledge given by the Chiricahuas to their old 
chief, Cochise. 

It was a pledge that every child in the Chiricahua 
tribe understood. In the days of Cochise, the great 
chief of the Chiricahua Apaches, the tribe was on 
friendly terms with both white men and Mexicans, 
and under these conditions had accepted an invita¬ 
tion to a great feast at a big mine in Mexico. 

The feast was to celebrate a pledge of friendship be¬ 
tween the mine owners and the Chiricahuas. Laugh¬ 
ing and talking, the Indians—men, women, and little 
children—squatted elbow to elbow, enjoying the 
feast. None of them was armed. 

A hundred yards away a man stood carelessly beside 
a heap of pack saddles and blankets. His hand lay 
across them and he smiled as he watched the Indians, 
who did not suspect that beneath the saddles was 
hidden a small cannon loaded with nails, slugs, and 
bits of broken glass. 

The chatter and laughter of those who feasted were 
interrupted by the cannon’s roar. 


GERONIMO’S CRIMSON TRAIL 53 


Men, women, and children screamed in agony. 
Shots from rifles mingled with their death cries. 
Only a few escaped without being injured. 

The story of that treachery was carried to Cochise, 
and he with all of the Chiricahuas swore vengeance 
against the Mexicans. And when Geronimo re¬ 
minded Mangus of the pledge, Mangus had stipu¬ 
lated that there should be no depredations on the 
American side of the border. It was not because of 
any friendship for Americans that Mangus had 
pressed this point, but because his superior intelli¬ 
gence and more logical mind had warned him that 
fighting the American soldiers would be a losing 
game and invite annihilation. 

The pledge was given, and broken within ten days. 
Again and again it had been broken. 

Then Josanie, in a spectacular effort to attain equal 
importance with Natchez and Mangus, had taken 
ten picked men and crossed the border from Mexico 
into Arizona. A network of vigilant troops guarded 
the American side, and Mexican rurales and regu¬ 
lars patrolled their own side. But Josanie, with the 
ingenuity of his race, had eluded them. 

He reported how he had not only slipped past the 
soldiers of two countries, but had actually reached 
the reservation at Fort Apache, where he had killed 
six White Mountain Apaches almost within sight 
of the fort itself. 

The straight, coarse Indian hair on the blood- 


54 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

stiffened scalps that he carried proved the truth of his 
boast. 

Nearly two hundred captured horses had been 
added to the Chiricahua pony herd during Josanie’s 
trip over twelve hundred miles in a space of four 
weeks. 

He looked at Mangus defiantly and flung on the 
ground the scalps of thirty-eight white men and 
women. 

“Americans, not Mexicans,” he taunted. 

Mangus looked at the scalps. His eyes flashed 
and his men crowded about him, muttering an¬ 
grily. It was a thing unprecedented in Indian 
history; for an Indian’s pledge in those days was 
more rigidly kept than the average white man’s 
oath. 

Outnumbered six to one, the men who followed 
Mangus were ready to fight, but he checked them 
with a commanding gesture. 

Geronimo rose slowly and walked over to where 
three heaps of booty were stacked. Plunder ac¬ 
quired in Mexican raids—food, guns, saddles, 
blankets, and ammunition—had been sorted for dis¬ 
tribution. In another place were the spoils from 
American raids. 

The war chief, with a peculiar smile, motioned 
Natchez to the largest portion of the Mexican loot. 
Natchez and his adherents took possession of it. 

Again Geronimo pointed, nodding at Josanie, 


GERONIMO’S CRIMSON TRAIL 55 

who swaggered past Mangus with an insolent smile. 
Mangus ignored him and gazed steadily at Geronimo. 
Their eyes met. 

Then with a gesture of contempt, Geronimo in¬ 
dicated the third and smallest share of the Mexican 
plunder. 

Mangus rose to his great height, his arms were 
folded across his chest, and he frowned down at 
the scalps lying near his feet. 

Geronimo’s eyes glittered in triumph. He stooped 
and picked up a small clod of earth and crumbled it 
deliberately, letting the particles fall slowly to the 
ground. It was the sign of a repudiated pledge. 

Mangus strode past him, plucked a twig from a 
mesquite bush and tossed it scornfully away. 

Not a word was spoken. 

Stooping, Mangus touched the ground with his 
index finger and drew two sharply diverging lines 
in the soft dust. And those who had followed him, 
as well as those who watched silently, knew that the 
path of Mangus would forever lie apart from the 
trail of Geronimo and Natchez. 

He rose and gazed steadily upon the group of 
Apaches back of Geronimo. Then followed by those 
who were still loyal, Mangus, the Big One, turned 
away forever from the camp of the Chiricahuas and 
from the tribe of his forefathers. 

Geronimo watched him with a look that was half 
dread, half satisfaction. He had driven out the 


56 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


man he most feared and envied, but a man whose 
power the war chief did not underestimate. 

Mangus had stood determinedly between Geronimo 
and his war upon the Americans. So Mangus had to 
be crushed. 

Mangus estranged weakened Geronimo’s band, but 
Mangus dominant would have been the only alterna¬ 
tive. 

As Geronimo had swept away the spider web across 
the entrance of the wickiup the night the four chiefs 
had plotted, so he had thrust aside the only man who 
might interfere with his plans and ambition to be¬ 
come the absolute power of all the Apache tribes. 


Chapter X 

The Sycamore Tree 

W HILE the soldiers and officers in actual 
pursuit of the hostiles rode day and night, 
social life in the various garrisons of Arizona 
remained practically unchanged. But the orderly 
assigned to distribute the mail groaned under heavy 
sacks of conjugal letters, and the informal weekly 
hops were abandoned on account of scarcity of men. 

Bonita practised target shooting and took long 
rides with Roy and Jerry; for neither Captain Dun¬ 
can’s troop nor that of Captain Kern had as yet 
been ordered on field duty. 

The first break in the care-free days of the three 
young people occurred when Captain Duncan was 
ordered to scout toward Fort Apache in an effort to 
intercept Josanie. Roy, second lieutenant of his 
father’s troop, accompanied him. 

During the time that Roy was absent from the 
garrison, Jerry and Bonita, free from the slight re¬ 
straint of a third person, drifted rapidly into an in¬ 
timate companionship which neither of them paused 
to measure. 


57 


58 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

Through the day, Jerry would frequently stop for a 
few moments when his way led past the Folly. If 
he were officer of the day he contrived to reach the 
porch on which the girl waited, so that he would 
have time before guard mounting for a short chat. 
Days when he was not on duty at that hour, and the 
band played its regulation extra, which was generally 
a dance, the rough board floor of the porch could not 
mar the pleasure of the two dancers. 

But there were emotions deeper than these; hours 
when Bonita’s music filled The Folly; and Jerry, 
seated where he could watch her face, fought his 
desire to tell her the love which, fanned to life in 
an instant, was now like a great fire burning in his 
breast. 

And there were evenings when they sat on the 
porch steps under the silvery sheen of Arizona stars, 
when words died on their lips, but the very silence, 
like a presence, brooded over and enfolded them. 

Two weeks had elapsed since Roy had gone with the 
troops. Jerry came whistling blithely down the line 
toward The Folly, where Bonita stood in her pink 
gown among the morning-glory vines. 

“ That Mexican song came this morning. I’ll come 
in and we’ll try it,” he announced, waving a sheet of 
music. 

They entered the living room and Bonita, seated 
at the piano, ran her hands lightly over the keys. 
Something of her heart seemed in the tips of her 


THE SYCAMORE TREE 59 

fingers and the notes responded to her mood as she 
sang: 

“‘Where wilt thou go, my agile little swallow? 

Thy wings would tire if long thy flight should be. 

Oh, if wind and storm should bring thee pain and anguish. 

If seeking shelter, none be found for thee. 

Where wouldst thou go? 


“‘Ah, come to me, a soft, warm nest I offer. 

Where all the wintry season will pass thee by. 

For, also, I wander in regions so lonely. 

Mid cold and tempest, and have no wings to fly. 

Ah, come to me.’ ” 

She whirled about on the piano stool: 

“I had no idea you could sing! Why didn’t you 
tell me that your voice had been trained?” 

“Oh! Was I singing?” he laughed. “Well, any 
man might make music of those words, if—if he sang 
them—to the right girl.” 

A red flush swept under his tan and the girl’s lids 
fell till her long lashes lay on her cheeks. Jerry 
fumbled confusedly in his pocket for a pencil, and 
copied the words of the song on the back of an enve¬ 
lope. 

“We must learn the Spanish. It sounds like a 
different song,” he said. 

Tucking the envelope in his blouse pocket, he left 
the room and ran down the steps, whistling the re¬ 
frain of the song— 


60 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


“‘Ah! come to me, a soft, warm nest I offer, 

Where all the wintry season will pass thee by- 999 


It still echoed in Bonita’s thoughts when Jerry re¬ 
turned and claimed a promised walk up the Grant 
Creek. It was a crystal mountain stream that sprang 
from the rocky heart of old Mount Graham, whose 
snowcapped head rose proudly ten thousand feet 
above the level of the far-distant sea. Like a silver¬ 
winged sprite the water danced and sang over jewel- 
coloured pebbles, between boulders worn smooth by 
its soft touch, or glided into little pools for a mo¬ 
ment’s rest before it hurried on to mingle with the 
hidden river that flowed beneath the valley. 

Bonita and Jerry, rambling beside the creek, 
reached a point where the shallow ripples eddied 
between large stepping stones very systematically 
arranged. 

“I wonder who found this place and fixed these 
stones?” said Bonita. 

“I did,” he replied. “There’s an old sycamore I 
wanted to show you, and I didn’t want you to cross on 
anything as common as a bridge.” He held out his 
hand for hers. 

“ Splendid!” she laughed, laying her hand in his, and 
they made their way across the flat, dry stones. 

On the opposite side of the creek a venerable syca¬ 
more towered high above its companions, its branches 
far-spreading and its white roots, like gnarled fingers. 


THE SYCAMORE TREE 61 

thrust down as if to clutch and hold the ever-eluding 
stream. 

As they stood beneath the leafy canopy, Stanley 
took a tiny leather book from his pocket and held it 
out. “Have you seen this?” he asked. 

Bonita glanced at the title and shook her head. 

“It is beautiful. Let me read some of it to you.” 

“Please.” 

They sat at the foot of the tree, and as he opened 
the book she looked over his arm and saw a mono¬ 
gram on the front page—a monogram in red. 

Bonita looked up with a puzzled frown. “What is 
that? I can’t make it out.” 

He leaned nearer and a strand of her hair touched 
his hand, which trembled, as with the stem of a leaf 
he traced the red outlines. 

“Can’t you see it?” he asked softly. “Your ini¬ 
tials and mine—together. Here’s the J, and there’s 
the B.” 

She turned away tremulously. He took the book 
and began reading. 

The world drifted away; time ceased; the universe 
held only two—themselves. 

So, in an elder day, Paola read to Francesca. 

The sun crept slowly down the western sky. The 
stream slipped softly on its way to hide in the heart 
of the valley and carry its message to the sleeping 
seed. A mocking bird trilled softly as it guarded a 
nest hidden among the sycamore’s leaves. The 


62 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


breeze that had lingered to kiss the girl’s flushed 
cheek stirred the last page of the book as the man 
handed it to her. 

“I wanted to show you this tree because I am going 
to mark it,” Stanley said. “The woodsman in the 
virgin forest puts his mark upon a tree and no other 
man may claim it. This is our tree—our tree. Do 
you hear, Bonita?” 

He read his answer in her eyes, and she stood be¬ 
side him as he cut upon the smooth, silvery bark the 
same monogram which was in the little book she held 
against a heart that fluttered like a captive bird. 

“Our tree!” he repeated as he finished his task. 

They looked at each other with understanding 
eyes. A sudden flush tinged his cheeks; the girl’s 
breath quickened. 

“Some day we will come back to it together.” He 
bent to hear her low “Yes.” 

The old tree heard the pledge. High above their 
heads its branches trembled like aged and holy hands 
in benediction. Only the breeze caught the syca¬ 
more’s whisper: 

“Nothing shall keep you apart. Though you 
travel distant trails while unshed tears blind your 
eyes and grief rends your hearts, your love shall 
triumph. You will not be lonely in your sleep, your 
eyes will not ache, neither will your hearts be 
troubled, for in dreams your hands will touch and 
you shall find each other.” 


THE SYCAMORE TREE 


63 


A leaf, the gift of the tree, fell at their feet. The 
golden banner of day was furled. Hand in hand the 
man and the girl recrossed the stepping stones. 

They had glimpsed a vision of pure and perfect 
love shining on eternal heights, and they walked in 
the haze of its white radiance. 


Chapter XI 
Who Waiting, Serve 

W HILE Mangus with his loyal followers 
struck trail into the heart of northern 
Mexico, Geronimo’s band slipped from 
place to place, leaving in their wake mutilated bodies 
of those who travelled alone, or cattle slaughtered 
and the loin cut out while the rest of the carcass lay 
untouched. 

Editorials in local newspapers denounced the dila¬ 
tory management of the campaign, and accused the 
military of apathy, while the army men, rank and 
file, growled helplessly in homes, the club, and the 
barracks. 

In the officers’ club at Fort Grant a number of the 
senior officers had gathered between duties, to growl 
ad libitum and incidentally watch a game of billiards 
between Captain Kern and Captain Keyes. 

“Any of you see that swat in the Tucson paper 
yesterday?” Kern asked as he leaned across the bil¬ 
liard table and made a shot that only an expert could 
hope to put over. 

The captain had been the one man in the regiment 
who could make that play until Stanley had joined 

64 


WHO WAITING, SERVE 65 

the Tenth and had beaten his troop commander. 
But the old officer was a sport. He knew how to 
win and how to lose. 

Kern was one of the most rigid disciplinarians of 
the regiment. Even his nose was dominant. It was 
a military nose, acutely belligerent and in itself tan¬ 
tamount to a declaration of war—the kind of a nose 
which has always led the United States Army to 
victory!—curved high in the centre, like an eagle’s 
beak; and behind that arch were two surprisingly 
mild blue eyes, which though usually benign as a 
bishop’s could turn as fierce as an Apache’s on the 
warpath. 

Kern’s profanity was an accomplishment. He 
could, when the occasion warranted, swear with the 
sonorous rhythm of a Gregorian chant, or with the 
soft mellifluence of a lover whispering to a lady. 

Now, as he hung his cue in the rack, he repeated 
his question, and Keyes smiled grimly. 

“ One paper? ” he drawled. “ They’ve all slammed 
the army ever since the campaign started. What 
surprises me is that they have anything left to say.” 

Nothing ever accelerated Keyes’ speech. But his 
fellow officers declared that if he had to go into ac¬ 
tion, Keyes would win the fight before he could com¬ 
plete the order—“Charge!” Kindly, whimsical, 
talented, brave, he was that anomaly, a man without 
an enemy. 

“This paper hits a new note,” Kern went on. 


66 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

“Takes a fling at us affluent, commissioned, feather¬ 
bed soldiers who loaf around the garrisons and enjoy 
lives of luxurious ease on the taxes of the helpless, 
slaughtered citizens!” 

“Wow!” retorted Keyes, “and we poor devils 
are scratching to buy shoes for our children and pay 
our commissary bills!” 

Kern was enjoying himself. “The editor suggests 
that the citizens of Arizona appeal to their represen¬ 
tatives in Washington to take a hand in the campaign 
at that end.” 

“The army is being ruined by a lot of confounded 
politicians who do not know the muzzle from the 
stock of a gun,” Duncan interjected sarcastically. 
He thrust a bit of twisted paper through the stem 
of his pipe as viciously as though he were spearing 
an editor. It was a sore subject with Duncan ever 
since Josanie had slipped past his troop. 

Wrathfully he snapped his teeth on the stem of his 
favourite pipe and the bowl rolled to the floor. The 
polished mahogany-coloured surface of the meer¬ 
schaum, which Duncan had lovingly cultivated for 
many years, showed a large white spot—a chip. 
The tragedy was too deep for mere words. 

Duncan’s brother officers regarded him sympa¬ 
thetically, even mournfully. It was a fitting climax 
to a gloomy day. For the army was restive and 
flinched under the unjust and indiscriminate criti¬ 
cisms—even abuse—of public and press. 


WHO WAITING, SERVE 67 

While the older officers growled in the club room, 
Stanley and Roy Duncan, in the front room of The 
Folly, were as vehemently threshing over the cam¬ 
paign conditions, and Bonita, in a transparent blue 
frock that veiled yet revealed her white throat and 
rounded, dimpled arms, curled comfortably on the 
couch near their chairs. 

October sunlight streamed through the long 
French windows facing the porch. A dome-shaped 
coal-oil lamp with dangling prisms swung above a 
table littered with books and magazines. Logs 
burning in the fireplace flashed upon the prisms, 
which reflected dancing, multicoloured lights upon 
whitewashed walls. Comfortable easy chairs, a few 
good pictures simply framed, an open, upright piano 
across a corner, and large, bright Navajo rugs upon 
the brown-painted floor made a typical and homelike 
sitting room of frontier army days. 

“I had a letter from Jim Hughes,” Stanley spoke. 
“He writes me that General Crook has been up at 
Whipple Barracks again, and Jim has been following 
him around like a hound-pup, asking to be assigned 
to field duty. Crook told him there was no place 
for him. Then he begged to be sent out somewhere, 
if only to sit beside a water hole. And Crook replied 
that there were more second lieutenants than there 
were water holes in the department. That settled it!” 

“The campaign has been on ever since April,” 
complained Roy, “and here it is October. Nothing 


68 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


has been accomplished except to wear out men and 
horses. We’re muzzled and hamstrung and have no 
votes, so we’ve got to take our medicine with a grin. 
Confound the newspapers!” 

He walked over to the fireplace, picked up the 
poker, and attacked the logs as though they were 
Apaches—or editorial writers. 

“For the Lord’s sake sing, Bonita,” he jerked 
irritably. “I’m in a tantrum, and ‘music hath 
charms to soothe the savage breast’—sometimes!” 

“Anything special for your case?” she asked lightly 
as she moved toward the piano. 

“Something new, if you have it.” 

While she searched through her music, Roy stood by 
the fireplace, scowling into the flames, his hands 
thrust into his trousers pockets. Jerry regarded 
him soberly, then turned in his chair so that he could 
watch the girl at the piano. 

And Bonita, remembering Jerry’s words, “Any 
man could make music of those words if he sang them 
to the right girl,” now sang the words for him—sang 
with her heart in her voice: 

“Adonde ira veloz y fatigada. 

La golondrina que de aqul se va. 

Oh! si en el viento gemiera angustiada 
Buscando abrigo y no lo encontrara, 

Junto a mi lecho le pondre su nido 
En donde pueda la estacion pasar, 

Tambien yo estoy en la region perdido, 

Oh! Cielo santo y sin poder volar.*’ 


WHO WAITING, SERVE 69 

“Did I get it right?” she challenged brightly as she 
faced the two men. 

“How did you learn the words?” Roy asked in 
surprise before Stanley could speak. 

“Juana Gonzales, Mrs. Crane’s nursemaid, taught 
me!” 

Roy made a quick, resentful movement. “How 
in the world did you happen to select that woman for 
a teacher?” he demanded sharply. 

“Why! I wanted to surprise you and Jerry by 
learning the Spanish words. Juana heard me telling 
Mrs. Crane, so she volunteered to teach me. I think 
it was very nice of her. She speaks pure Spanish— 
Mrs. Crane said so.” And defiantly, “I have ar¬ 
ranged for regular lessons from her.” 

“That is out of the question.” Roy spoke per¬ 
emptorily and again attacked the fire. 

“For goodness sakes, why?” 

“Oh, I just don’t like the idea, Bonita. I—I— 
hope you won’t have anything to do with her.” 

“Roy and I had a notion that you’d let us teach 
you,” Jerry interposed with a smile, “but I wanted 
to polish up my accent a bit before we spoke to you 
about it. Now that the cat’s out of the bag, we 
might as well get up our little class right away.” 

“Oh, that will be splendid!” cried Bonita, with 
sparkling eyes. 

“Bully!” exclaimed Roy. “And, I say, Nita, you 
don’t mind my being grouchy, do you?” 


70 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


“Not a bit,” she replied, smiling. 

“Gee! Bonita, you’re an angel!” he said, as he 
and Jerry rose to their feet at the sound of a bugle 
and started toward the door. 

Bonita waved a deprecating hand as they went 
out, but Jerry lingered a second in the hallway to 
glance back, and a warm flush dyed her face and 
white throat at the message she read in his eyes. 


Chapter XII 

Captain Emmet Crawford 

E AT, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we 
scout,” had been the slogan of officers who 
fretted to join in the chase after the Apaches. 
Stories of outrages below the Mexican border and 
in Arizona Territory were constant and proved con¬ 
clusively that the Chiricahuas were making a blood- 
red trail in both countries. Stolen horses, slaughtered 
cattle, Mexican wood-choppers scalped in their 
little camps, and cowpunchers fired on by concealed 
hostiles were daily reports. 

Just back of garrisons the hostiles flashed their 
signals by holding and dropping blankets in front of 
fires, and the smoke message by day, or fire signs 
at night, could be seen plainly from far-distant 
points. Yet so skilfully did the Apaches select 
their signal places that those in the near-by garrisons 
were totally unaware of their proximity until some 
irate rancher exploded in bitter criticisms regarding 
the indifference of officers and soldiers. 

The troops doggedly trailing the hostiles were 
discouraged by the knowledge that an Apache could 
71 


72 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


thrive where other men would die of thirst or hunger. 
Mountains made no obstacles to the Indians, who 
scaled them as flies climb walls. Country unmapped 
for military or other use had been familiar ground 
for generations of the Apache tribes. In arid regions 
they knew where to find water. Cactus furnished 
food and moisture which sustained them when other 
men would succumb. 

The Indians, able to make almost a hundred miles 
each day afoot over the roughest mountains, out¬ 
stripped the infantry and cavalry alike. Their 
ponies, ridden without mercy until exhausted, were 
never abandoned until killed. This was no act of 
mercy, but to prevent possible use by pursuers. 

Heavy cavalry horses, accustomed to grain and 
hay, played out on scanty, dry wild grasses, or 
limped with torn hoofs over rocky trails. Each 
soldier had but one horse, and no opportunity to rest 
or replace it: whereas the Chiricahuas accumulated 
bands of stolen horses, which they drove along with 
them to furnish relay mounts. 

Such was the situation confronting the army in 
Arizona Territory the beginning of November, eight 
months after Geronimo and his followers had jumped 
the reservation at Fort Apache. Horses were 
breaking under the terrific physical strain, while the 
morale of the men was slowly ebbing. With fiendish 
ingenuity, the Chiricahuas harassed yet evaded 
them, committing depredations on the American 


CAPTAIN EMMET CRAWFORD 73 

soil, then slipping across into Mexico. On the other 
hand, Mexican soldiers pursued to the border and 
could go no farther without creating possible in¬ 
ternational complications. A situation of which 
old Geronimo was fully aware. 

“What do you think?” Captain Duncan entered 
the front room of The Folly where his wife and 
Bonita were making lists of Christmas presents from 
numerous catalogues. “Emmet Crawford is here! 
On his way to Fort Bowie with two companies of 
Indian scouts. Bound for Mexico!” 

“Oh, I am delighted!” Mrs. Duncan turned to 
her ward. “We haven’t seen him since you were a 
baby in the old Thirty-ninth at Ship Island. Your 
mother and father were his most intimate friends 
and he was devoted to you. But”—she regarded 
her husband with puzzled eyes—“what is he doing 
here when the Third is in Texas?” 

“General Crook’s request that he be sent back 
here for special duty. Crawford’s influence in keep¬ 
ing the Apaches from outbreaks was almost hyp¬ 
notic, I’ve heard. He leaves early in the morning 
for Fort Bowie but will be over for dinner with us.” 

Captain Duncan looked at the clock. “Board of 
Survey,” he commented as he started for the door, 
where he paused to add, “ I hope we can have the 
evening alone with him.” 

“I’ll see that we do,” replied his spouse, and he 
knew that he could depend on it. 


74 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


Mrs. Duncan left Bonita to dust and rearrange 
chairs and to collect the catalogues they had been 
studying. In Arizona there are two things a woman 
can always do—look at catalogues and dust furni¬ 
ture. Possibly winds and sandstorms were dis¬ 
pensations of Providence to prevent ennui. 

The commissary, as usual, had closed at one 
o’clock, so the menu had to be planned expertly. 
But Jane had often triumphed over closed com¬ 
missaries and unexpected guests. 

Retreat was over before men’s steps were heard in 
the hallway, and Bonita, waiting with Mrs. Duncan, 
looked up at the tall, gaunt figure in the uniform of a 
cavalry captain. 

Crawford turned toward the girl after he had 
greeted the captain’s wife. His deepset, steel-gray 
eyes regarded Bonita with searching kindliness. 

“It makes me feel old, seeing you grown into a 
young lady,” he smiled as he clasped her hand. 
Then his serious face lightened and he added, “I 
would have known you anywhere by your eyes and 
curls and smile. But the last time I saw you, you 
were small enough to let me kiss you.” 

“I am not too big now,” she answered, and there 
was no trace of coquetry in the eyes that looked up 
at him. “Uncle Jim has often told me how you 
used to carry me around and what chums we once 
were.” 

“That has been one of the sweetest memories of 


CAPTAIN EMMET CRAWFORD 75 

my life,” he said earnestly, as he gently pressed a 
vkiss on her white forehead^ 

In the conversation that followed, memories, like 
unseen forms, peopled the room until Jane brought 
them back to the present by announcing dinner. 

Seated at the table, Crawford turned to the girl 
beside him and said, “The very last dinner I shared 
with your mother and father was at Ship Island when 
we received our orders—I, to go to the Third, and 
your father to the Tenth Cavalry. I shall never for¬ 
get that night. We had a terrible storm and the 
Gulf was washing under the pilings which supported 
the officers’ quarters. We finally had to leave the 
house, and I carried you to the bomb-proofs, where 
we had a number of military prisoners in the stock¬ 
ades. We stayed all night, and the next morning we 
found that a schooner, which had been anchored on 
the Mississippi Sound toward the land, had been 
carried right across the Island and was riding safely 
on the Gulf side.” 

“Have you forgotten ‘Bleeding Kansas’ and 
Chick?” Captain Duncan’s eyes twinkled. 

“I have often wondered who did that,” his wife 
laughed. 

“Well,” Duncan replied slowly, “I have kept one 
secret from you.” 

“You always insisted that you did not know,” 
accused Mrs. Duncan. 

“What was it?” questioned Bonita eagerly. 



76 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


“It all started with ‘Bleeding Kansas’,” the captain 
began, and those at the table knew that a story was 
coming and even Duncan’s family enjoyed his yarns. 
“We called him ‘Bleeding Kansas’ when he joined 
the Thirty-ninth. He was tall, ungainly, and had the 
most indescribable shade of red hair imaginable. He 
hailed from Kansas and looked it. With him came 
a hairless Mexican dog named Chick. Neither Chick 
nor his owner was popular in the regiment. One 
night a few second lieutenants visited his quarters 
while he was absent. Chick was home, but his objec¬ 
tion to callers was of no avail. A bottle of mucilage 
and a roll of cotton batting furnished the covering 
that nature had failed to provide for Chick. 

“‘Bleeding Kansas’ arrived in his usual hilarious 
frame of mind and Chick rushed to meet him in the 
dark. But a woolly dog was not familiar. Those 
who were hiding heard a cuss word and a yelp. 
Chick’s owner, like Chick, was in the dark mentally 
and physically. The matches had been removed. 
An expurgated edition of the monologue might run 
something like this— 

“ ‘Shoun’s like—hie—hie—Schick—don’ feel like— 
Schick. Here—hie—hie—Schick. Come here— 
Schicky—Schick! 

“He got matches from his pocket, for there were 
none in that room anywhere else. I can take an 
oath to that fact!” Captain Duncan grinned at 
Crawford, whose face was a study of mirth. 


CAPTAIN EMMET CRAWFORD 77 

“When poor old ‘Bleeding Kansas’ saw a freak 
French poodle wagging the queerest tail ever wagged 
by any dog, he stared wildly and backed against the 
wall, saying in a quavering voice, ‘I’ve got’ em again. 
It’s worse than uzzer time. Got stop drinkin’!’ 

“He tried to dodge the cotton-batting dog that was 
hopping around him. He staggered around the 
centre table, dog at heels, and finally Chick dodged 
under the table and sat up ‘attention,’ then rose on 
his knotty white legs and ‘walked like a soldier.’ 
The only two tricks he knew. That identified him!” 

“Then what happened?” Mrs. Duncan was de¬ 
termined to learn the whole story. 

“‘Bleeding Kansas’ commandeered a bucket of 
hot water and soaked Chick in it. By the time he 
finished plucking a Mexican dog, day broke and 
Chick’s master was sober enough to attend reveille. 
He made threats of shooting whoever did it, but it 
remained a dark mystery.” 

“Well, you seem pretty well posted,” the captain’s 
wife commented promptly. “Who did it?” 

“Murder will out. I held Chick,” confessed 
Captain Duncan, “and Ford applied the mucilage 
while Cooper and Crawford transformed a hairless 
Mexican dog into a miniature bale of cotton.” 

When their laughter had subsided, old jokes, al¬ 
most forgotten names and incidents formed the 
conversation. Only a few were left of the ones who 
had shared the pleasures and privations of those 


78 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


days at Ship Island—days that had been a part of 
Bonita’s baby life. 

Captain Duncan rose to his feet, wine glass in 
hand. 

“Here’s to those who are gone!” he said. 

Their eyes were misty, as standing they drank the 
familiar toast to the comrades who had answered 
the Last Roll Call. 

Then the half-emptied glasses were lifted higher 
as Captain Duncan gave the end of the toast— 

“And here’s to the next one to go!” 

Silently they set the glasses on the table and re¬ 
sumed their places, but a shadow seemed to have 
fallen upon them all. 

Mrs. Duncan, after a few forced sentences, rose 
and led the way to the front room and, as usual, took 
up her fancy work, while the men lit cigars. 

“Give us some music, Bonita,”Mrs.Duncan spoke, 
and the tense atmosphere relaxed as the first notes 
of the girl’s song filled the room. 

Crawford sat staring into the glowing log fire and 
the lines of his gaunt face in repose, with its deeply 
set eyes and heavy dark brows, gave an impression 
of unutterable weariness. One thin land lay limply 
on the arm of his chair, the other held his forgotten 
cigar. 

As he listened to Bonita’s exquisite voice, the long- 
vanished face of a girl he had loved smiled at him from 
the soft firelight. It was a face that had once 


CAPTAIN EMMET CRAWFORD 


79 


awakened dreams of a home and children—dreams 
that no one ever knew but himself—dreams that had 
faded forever. Ah, yes! Eighteen was very young. 
Too young to die. He had laid a flower in her hand. 
Maybe she had known when he placed it there— 
maybe she would see it when she should “wake and 
remember and understand.” 

The music ceased. The dream faded. But Craw¬ 
ford’s eyes were serene as he turned to the girl. 

“You have a wonderful gift, dear child. It makes 
one feel that the door to some better world had been 
left ajar.” He sighed almost imperceptibly, then 
added with a smile, “I remember how you used to 
climb into a big rocker and sing and trill like a bird, 
though you were too small to speak plainly. You 
could not possibly sing, though, unless you were in 
that particular chair, and the harder you sang, the 
faster the chair rocked. I often rescued you at the 
danger point.” 

They laughed at the memory, and Captain Duncan 
held out a match as he said, “Your cigar is dead, 
Crawford. Light up and tell us what you have been 
doing since we last saw you.” 


Chapter XIII 
When Duty Calls 


t | ^IIE exchange of experiences over, conversa- 
1 tion veered to the topic that engrossed them 

JL all—the Geronimo campaign. 

“I owe one debt of gratitude to Geronimo,” 
affirmed Crawford, “for he has given us the chance 
to be together once more. I was sure that I had left 
Arizona for good when the Third went to Texas, 
yet here I am in the thick of the Apache problem 
again. I am so tired.” He paused and sighed. 
“So tired that I hoped for a chance to rest. It all 
seems so futile.” 

“ Crook’s request for your return to Arizona proves 
how valuable you are here,” said Captain Duncan 
warmly. 

“What are General Crook’s plans, Captain?” 
Roy broke in before Crawford could answer. Then 
apologetically he added, “I beg your pardon, sir. 
I did not mean to be officious.” 

“There is nothing to apologize for,” the older 
man responded with a kindly glance at the now 
embarrassed young officer. “General Crook intends 
80 



WHEN DUTY CALLS 


81 


to send a force of a hundred friendly Indians into 
Mexico. There will be two companies of fifty each, 
which will include Chiricahua, Warm Springs, and 
White Mountain Apaches.” 

“Do you know who will go with you?” Mrs. 
Duncan spoke, letting her fancy work lie in her lap. 

“Lieutenant Maus of the First Infantry and 
Lieutenant Shipp of the Tenth have been selected to 
command the two companies. Lieutenant Faison 
of the First Infantry is to be adjutant, quarter¬ 
master, and commissary officer. Doctor Tom Davis 
goes as medical officer and I will command the entire 
force. We expect to start from Fort Bowie as soon 
as General Sheridan inspects us.” 

“Any special orders?” inquired Captain Duncan 
between meditative puffs on his pet meerschaum. 

“Keep hot on the trail of Geronimo until he has 
been captured or is forced to surrender. Just that!” 

The firelight flickered dully. The smouldering 
log parted in the centre and rolled into the deep 
ashes as Crawford’s voice went on: “CaptainWirt 
Davis, of the Fourth, with Lieutenant Hay, will 
have another hundred Indian scouts—San Carlos 
and White Mountain in addition to their own 
troop of the Fourth Cavalry. They will operate in 
Chihuahua while we cover Sonora. The entire work 
of the scouts, as you see, will be in Mexico.” 

“Just between ourselves, what do you think the 
probable outcome will be?” Captain Duncan had 


82 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

risen and, taking the poker from the side of the fire¬ 
place, struck the log vigorously. A sudden shower 
of sparks rushed up the chimney. Then, as the 
blaze gained strength, Duncan settled down once 
more and turned questioning eyes on the other 
man. 

“Everything depends on the loyalty of our Indian 
scouts,” was the reply. “ It is hard to tell which ones 
are friendly to Geronimo. Many of them belong 
to the Chiricahuas and we have to reckon with the 
tribal spirit, no matter what race is involved.” 

“Captain Crawford”—Lieutenant Duncan, who 
had been listening to the older officers, joined the 
conversation—“it seems to me that the real problem 
would lie in having to operate in Mexico. What do 
you think about that?” 

“That is an important issue,” Crawford assented 
with the gentle courtesy which he always accorded 
the young officers. “In spite of the gentlemen’s 
agreement between Mexico and our own country, 
the feeling down there is very antagonistic toward 
American soldiers. A perfectly logical sentiment on 
their part, since they regard our going into their 
country as tantamount to an invasion by an armed 
force.” 

“I understand that about seventy-five per cent, 
of the population down there can neither read nor 
write,” commented Captain Duncan. “Naturally 
they would be ignorant of any agreement that exists 


WHEN DUTY CALLS 83 

between the United States and Mexico regarding 
the present campaign.” 

“That is the big risk,” Crawford answered slowly. 
“In isolated districts the least misunderstanding 
may precipitate international complications. Be¬ 
cause of the peculiar conditions surrounding the send¬ 
ing of this expedition into Mexico, only volunteer 
officers are being used.” 

“You did not volunteer!” exclaimed Mrs. Duncan 
indignantly. 

“I did not volunteer”—he spoke the words very 
deliberately and quietly, as though he had forgotten 
that any one besides himself was in the room—“but 
no officer can decline an official request.” Again 
the almost imperceptible sigh before he added, “X 
am very, very tired. When this work is over I 
want to take a good, long rest.” 

“I don’t see why American officers should be sent 
there!” Mrs. Duncan was vehement, and her 
husband looked at her in surprise. Rarely did his 
wife display an emotion. “Everyone knows that no 
American is safe in Mexico just now. Any army 
officer from our country, even when authorized by 
the Mexican Government, may meet death at the 
hands of irresponsible natives!” Her voice was 
unsteady and the folded hands in her lap trembled 
slightly. 

“Geronimo has a record established already. 
Three times he has surrendered and returned to the 


84 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


reservation with all his plunder, under guarantee of 
immunity,” growled Captain Duncan. “It’s cer¬ 
tainly enough to discourage the army, and be an in¬ 
centive for Apache outbreaks. Why”—he spoke 
sharply—“even your Indian scouts may turn against 
you down there! What could four white men do 
against a hundred armed Apaches down in the heart 
of Mexico?” 

“ I am reasonably certain that I can trust each scout 
I have picked to go with me,” was Crawford’s calm 
reply. “Still, no one can ever tell. No white man 
will ever understand the Apaches’ peculiar racial 
code. Tom Horn, whom I have known for a long 
time, is going to act as interpreter and also chief of 
scouts. His influence is remarkable. I guess he 
understands the Apaches as well as any man in this 
section.” 

“Everyone speaks well of him,” commented Roy. 

“Horn’s only handicap is that he is a white man. 
And no white man can tell what is going on under the 
scalp lock of an Apache.” Crawford lifted himself 
in his chair and gazed earnestly from face to face. 
“Eskimizeen is proof of that.” 

“In what way?” questioned Mrs. Duncan. 

“Sixteen years ago he killed a rancher named 
Jones. They were good friends, and the Apache 
frequently stopped at the ranch. One day, after 
sharing a meal, the Indian shot Jones without the 
least provocation. He coolly explained that the act 


WHEN DUTY CALLS 


85 


showed his own courage. That any coward could 
kill an enemy, but it took a brave man to kill a friend 
whom he loved!” 

“I never heard of such reasoning!” exclaimed 
Bonita, aghast. 

“I wonder how far white men have the right to 
judge them.” Crawford looked at Captain Duncan. 
“I have honestly tried to be fair-minded and see this 
problem from both sides. The Indians have not 
been given a square deal. Ever since the first 
settlers it has been a policy of civilization by ex¬ 
termination, and they come back at us in the only 
way they know how. General Miles’s report in 
1874 hits the nail on the head.” 

“No man in America has a better right to an 
opinion on that subject,” answered Captain Duncan 
emphatically. 

Crawford nodded thoughtfully. “Our unintelli¬ 
gent handling of the Indians—a mixture of senti¬ 
mentality and merciless punishment—is a black page 
of American history. We punish the innocent with 
the guilty, and the end will only come when the 
Indians have ceased to exist as a race. They under¬ 
stand this themselves.” 

Slowly he rose to his feet, his gaunt shadow sil¬ 
houetted against the white wall as his sombre eyes 
looked into the firelight. 

“Don’t think I am morbid”—there was a note of 
appeal in his deep voice—“but somehow I have a 


86 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


feeling—a premonition, I might call it—that when 
I go down there to Mexico, I shall never come back!” 

He stood among them, yet alone. Just as his life 
had been lived from boyhood. No one had ever 
guessed the hunger in his heart, the craving for 
human love and understanding, except a little curly- 
headed baby who had clung to his neck and showered 
kisses on the grave face pressed against her own. 
And now she understood, as then. He did hot know 
Bonita was at his side until warm fingers slipped into 
his own and her cheek was pressed against his sleeve. 
Crawford looked down and saw the message in her 
eyes, and a beautiful smile irradiated his grave face. 
The gap of vanished years was bridged. 

The silence of the room was broken by Roy’s voice. 
“ Captain Crawford, I would like to make an applica¬ 
tion to go with you.” The young officer did not wait 
reply, but turned eagerly toward his father. “Dad, 
you’re my captain. You’ve got your first lieutenant 
now. Will you give me permission to go?” 

Mrs. Duncan paused in her sewing and looked over 
at the three men. Her lips parted. But the faintly 
articulated “Roy” was like a hastily suppressed 
breath. 

Bonita leaned forward with shining eyes. “ Good! 
Good!” she cried. “Oh, I wish I were a man so I 
could go, too!” 

Roy’s father cast one swift glance at his wife as 
she again bent over her work. Then he walked to 


WHEN DUTY CALLS 87 

the long window and stood staring out into the 
night. 

Crawford watched his old friend, understanding 
the father’s thoughts. He looked at the boy’s 
mother and read the struggle in her heart. Her 
shoulders sagged pitifully and the stitches in her 
embroidery were uneven. She was the wife of an 
officer, the mother of one. Hers was the silent 
battle in the lonely night hours. 

So she did not lift her eyes when her husband 
turned from the window and said quietly, “All 
right, Roy, if Captain Crawford wishes to have you 
with him.” 

“I shall be glad to have him,” Crawford spoke in a 
formal voice. “I expect to start an hour before 
reveille, and will request General Sheridan and Gen¬ 
eral Crook to assign you to the command.” 

The young officer’s head lifted proudly. 

Crawford regarded the others in the room. No 
one had moved. The silence was tense. “I hope” 
—he hesitated slightly—“that none of us will re¬ 
gret that I came here to-day.” 

He bade the Duncans good-night and turned to 
Bonita. “Good-bye, little girl. God bless you and 
make you happy.” 

His lips touched her forehead, then he turned 
from the room and passed out of the house into the 
silence and shadows of the night. 


Chapter XIV 
Good-Bye 

B Y JOVE, I’m glad to get that chance!” exulted 
^ Roy when they had returned to the sitting 
" room. “I’ll be away before reveille, and if 
my application is approved, I won’t get back here.” 

Mrs. Duncan stood by the table, and methodically 
folded her sewing. She placed it in the fancy basket 
as she said quietly, “I’d better pack your scouting 
things now.” 

“A canteen, a toothbrush, and a smile will be 
about all he will need on a trip like this one,” sug¬ 
gested her husband. “The toothbrush will soon 
become superfluous, but he will hang on to the can¬ 
teen and—I hope—the smile.” 

The young officer laid his hand on his father’s 
shoulder. “I’ll do my best to play up to your level. 
Dad!” 

“I know you will, Son.” 

Bonita was gathering scattered music and ar¬ 
ranging it in the cabinet, and Roy turned toward 
her. 

“Sleepy, Nita?” he asked. 

88 


GOOD-BYE 


89 


“ Not a bit ” 

“Then get a wrap and come on the porch. It’s a 
bully night.” 

Mrs. Duncan studied Roy’s face as the girl left 
the room, and the mother’s hand reached out in¬ 
voluntarily, then fell to her side. Twice that eve¬ 
ning she had watched her son slipping out of her life. 
Her face was very pale as she turned it away from 
him. The call of duty—even the risk of death for 
him—she could stand, but the call of love for another 
woman was harder to bear. 

Even that struggle was not apparent in the smile as 
she saw Bonita reenter the room with a soft white 
scarf twisted over her head and shoulders. The 
mother’s smile did not waver when Roy moved to 
the girl’s side. 

“Turn out the lamp when you come in, children,” 
she said. “Roy, I will call you in the morning when 
your coffee is ready.” 

“Call me, too, Aunt Marcia,” Bonita waited to 
look back and speak. “I’ll drink a stirrup cup with 
him before he starts.” 

Outside the house they stood together in silence. 
The barrack lights were dead, but the stars were 
brilliant and clear, and velvet shadows lay beneath 
the cottonwood trees that bordered the driveway. 
Bonita sat down on the top step, her shoulders 
against a pillar, her slightly upturned face outlined 
softly against the darkness of the porch. 


90 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


To the man sitting at her feet she seemed far away. 
“Nita-” 

She turned with a smile so frank that he repressed 
the words he had intended to speak. 

“I’ve been hoping to get a chance to do some¬ 
thing besides garrison duty, and now, at last, it seems 
to be coming my way,” he substituted awkwardly. 

“It’s fine for you,” the girl responded, ‘‘but it will 
be hard for Aunt Marcia, especially if Uncle Jim 
is ordered out, too.” 

“I’m mighty glad you will be with her.” He 
paused, then hurried on, “I want to do my share in 
the campaign, and I want you and Mother to be 
proud of me.” He forced a short laugh. “Don’t 
think it’s pure egotism, Nita. I’ve simply got to do 
something worth while to balance my shortcom¬ 
ings.” His voice trembled with emotion. 

“Your shortcomings, Roy, cannot be so very bad. 
We are all proud of you.” She laid her hand on 
his and he turned his palm upward so that her fin¬ 
gers rested in his clasp. “Of course you will make 
good!” 

“You will write me?” 

“Yes, but there won’t be much to tell. Aunt 
Marcia will keep you posted about any news in her 
letters.” 

“But I will look for your letters, too,” he insisted. 

“Twelve o’clock and all is well!” the call of the 
sentries echoed through the stilly night. 


GOOD-BYE 


91 


“We must go in.” The girl was on her feet. 
“You will need a good night’s rest. I will see you 
in the morning over our coffee.” 

“But I want to talk to you.” He turned a rueful 
face toward her. 

“Not now,” was her smiling answer. “Didn’t 
you hear that sentry call?” 

He followed her into the hall. “I don’t want you 
to get up in the morning, so it’s good-bye, Nita.” 

She looked up into his eyes, then impulsively laid 
her hands upon his cheeks and drew him down until 
her lips touched his own. 

“Good-night and good-bye, Roy,” she said ear¬ 
nestly. “God bless you and bring you back safely 
to us all!” 

He watched her go along the hall until she reached 
her own room. Pausing, she looked back and waved 
her hand. 

A mist blurred the light as he turned down the 
lamp wick. It flickered out and left the room in 
darkness. The young officer stood irresolutely; 
then taking his cap from the rack, he hurried down 
the quiet front line to the bachelors’ quarters where 
he banged at the door of Stanley’s darkened room. 

“Wake up, old man!” 

“What the dickens-” the sleeper protested as 

he woke. 

Roy was already lighting the lamp on a table 
beside the bunk. He dropped into a chair and con- 


92 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


fronted the blinking, tousled man who slipped back 
among his pillows, looking very boyish. 

“What do you think is up?” jubilated Duncan. 

“Evidently you are. It’s the first time since I 
left the Academy that I’ve gone to bed early, and 
now you butt in and bust up my slumbers! What’s 
the matter, son?” 

Roy’s news stirred him. “Jiminee! You’re in 
luck!” said Stanley enviously. “It’s a bully chance! 
Wish I were going with you, but there’s no such 
luck. Kern hasn’t any first and says he can’t let 
me go. I’m too valuable to lose,” he grinned, but 
his face sobered as Roy told of Crook’s plan to use 
Indian scouts in Mexico. 

“Everything is fixed all right,” ended Roy, as he 
helped himself to Stanley’s tobacco and paper, 
rolled a cigarette, and passed it on to his friend. The 
same thought was in the mind of both. When and 
where would they share the “makings” again? 

“What the devil am I going to do about Juana?” 
Roy demanded irritably. “She’ll raise Cain after 
I get away, I’m afraid.” 

Stanley puffed silently, and his friend went on: 
“It’s a damned rotten mess. She wants more money, 
as usual. She never lets up in her demands.” 

“How much have you on hand?” 

“I can dig up fifty dollars. That’s all. Will 
you give her my cheque? I hate like the deuce to 
ask you, Jerry, but I can’t manage it any other way. 


GOOD-BYE 


93 


“All right.” 

Roy seated himself at the table and filled out the 
cheque. Stanley accepted the slip of paper, and 
Duncan went on hastily, “It’s a darn shame for me 
to bother you this way, and I wouldn’t do it just 
for myself—I’d face the music. But—oh, hang it 
—there are the folks-” he broke off suddenly. 

“Does this break you, old man?” asked his friend. 

“You bet it does! I won’t have an extra sou till 
next pay day. Tell her she’s got to make this do!” 

“Don’t worry over this. You’ve got a big job 
ahead. Nothing else counts but that. Leave this 
thing to me.” 

Stanley was at his friend’s side. He laid his two 
hands on Roy’s shoulders and they looked into each 
other’s eyes. 

“Jerry—you’re the best-” 

“Shut up!” commanded Stanley, reaching toward 
a pillow. 

“All right. I’m off!” 

Together they reached the door. Their hands 
gripped tightly. 

“Good luck, Roy!” 

“So long!” 

Roy closed the door and walked briskly back to his 
home, but Stanley sat beside his window staring 
at the dim outlines of The Folly. 

Three chairs instead of four were at the breakfast 
table that morning in The Folly; and Bonita, enter- 


94 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

ing the room, felt a lump rise in her throat as she 
looked at the empty place. It was like a death in the 
home. 

Mrs. Duncan’s voice greeted her cheerfully, but 
her pale face told of a sleepless night. Captain 
Duncan forced a note of gaiety into the conversa¬ 
tion by telling that a thief who had been stealing 
money and cartridges had been identified as the 
troop’s pet crow. 

“Lucky they caught him at it yesterday,” con¬ 
cluded the officer, “for circumstantial evidence 
warranted charges against Private Williams and I 
intended to push the matter to the limit.” 

He left the room as Aunt Jane came in to hold the 
regular conference as to the commissary list. She 
was deeply apologetic over a slight delay in serving 
dinner the previous evening. 

“Yo’ see, Miss’ Duncan,” she explained solemnly, 
“ w’en Ah done cayard de dishes out befo’ de dessu’t, 
day ah wuz a black cat a-settin’ in de kitchen, an’ 
Ah done figgered we all is suah gwineter hab a streak 
ob good luck. But, lawsy! Mis’ Duncan, dat 
yeah cat wuz a skunk, an’ hit wou’dn’t leab de 
kitchen noways an’ de dessu’t wuz on dat kitchen 
table.” 

“What on earth did you do?” exclaimed Bonita. 

“Ah jes’ fro wed a bucket ob watah on him.” 
Triumphantly the old woman surveyed the aghast 
faces of her auditors. “Skunks cain’t mek no 


GOOD-BYE 


95 


’sturbanee long’s dey’s wet, or if yo’ grab em by de 
tail an’ hoi’ ’em haid down. So Ah picked him 
up and’ gib him ter Lewis to tote off. An’ Mis’ 
Duncan”—Jane’s voice quivered with indignation— 
“whut’ yo’ think? Dat yeah fool nigger Lewis, he 
ain’t come back yit!” 


Chapter XV 
Mutiny 

B ONITA must be protected,” Mrs. Duncan 
said to her husband in the privacy of their 
room. “Your leaving in the morning com¬ 
plicates the situation, but before you go you simply 
must do something to make Stanley know his place.” 

“It may all be confounded gossip,” Captain Dun¬ 
can answered, cutting his chin with a final irritated 
scrape of his razor. 

“It is common talk among the servants. You 
know Jane does not hunt gossip, and she feels 
dreadfully over this. Stanley has been repeatedly 
seen going to the hut where that Gonzales woman 
lives. Mrs. Crane discharged her as soon as her 
condition was apparent.” 

“Condition, eh?” he turned a startled glance 
upon his wife. 

Her lips tightened and she nodded emphatically. 
“I didn’t know that it was as serious as that,” 
Duncan said. Throwing down his razor, he strode 
over to the window and stood staring out while he 
rumpled his hair with a nervous hand. “Hang it, 
Marcia!” he turned about, “it’s a beastly mess, 

96 


MUTINY 


97 


but I can’t see my way clear to do anything about it 
without starting a scandal in the regiment. I don’t 
want to do that.” 

“Well, why need you? The only thing that con¬ 
cerns us is his pursuit of Bonita.” 

“How do you mean pursuit?” the officer snapped 
out. 

“Why, haven’t you noticed his eyes always 
follow her; wherever she goes, you’ll find him there, 
and he doesn’t pay the least attention to any snubs 
I give him. I turn my back on him, and he comes 
up beside me as cheerful as you please and acts 
as though I were his bosom friend!” 

She looked up so indignantly that the captain’s 
mouth relaxed in a smile. In spite of herself, Mrs. 
Duncan laughed. 

“Well, don’t worry,” he reassured her, “I’ll take 
care of that! I’ll make it cussed plain before I 
leave that he must keep away from Bonita!” 

“What shall I do if he ignores your command and 
comes here after you have gone?” 

“Cut him, and have her do the same! Show him 
the door! A woman can handle a situation that 
way.” 

“But if he persists?” 

“Tell her the truth about him. That ought to 
settle it for good.” 

“I cannot do that! It is too disgusting.” Mrs. 
Duncan’s voice was positive. “It is not a matter to 


98 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


discuss with a young girl. Why! Bonita has no 
idea such things even exist!” 

“Well, she ought to have an idea,” he retorted 
with asperity. “I don’t think you are on the right 
track there. You should have talked with her when 
she came from school.” 

‘Jim Duncan, you agreed when we first took her 
in our home that she should be brought up like an 
old-fashioned girl,” reminded the officer’s wife 
tartly. “However you may vacillate in your ideas, 
I have followed the original plan to the letter. The 
day before a girl’s marriage is the proper time to 
enlighten her.” 

“Well, that’s up to you,” he conceded grudgingly. 
“I suppose we see these things differently, but a man 
wouldn’t let a poor kid go it blind.” 

“Then talk to her yourself,” she replied quickly. 

“I don’t want to do it,” he hedged. 

“A word from you would mean more than all I 
could say about Stanley. If I tell her the whole 
story she will probably take sides with him and name 
me as authority for the first open charge.” 

Duncan scowled at his mutilated cigar. “Oh, all 
right! I’ll see her now and get it over.” 

“But do be careful what you tell her.” The words 
floated after him as he went reluctantly toward 
Bonita’s room. 

When he tapped on her door she was opening a 
letter which had arrived in the mail. 


MUTINY 99 

“Oh, Uncle Jim!” she cried, “here is a letter from 
Roy. It’s to me, but you read it.” 

He took it eagerly. It was the first word from Roy 
since the short note announcing that he had been 
assigned to Crawford’s command and that General 
Sheridan had been very cordial to him. The young 
officer’s father took the letter over to the window, 
and read aloud: 

En Route for Geronimo. 

Near Fronteras, Mexico. 

Dear Bonita: November 25,1885. 

He smiled at the girl and continued: 

Just got a chance to send a line via courier. All the command 
is in fine fettle so far. We crossed the border about twenty 
miles north of Fronteras and hope soon to cut trail of old 
Geronimo and his bunch of broncos. 

While we are travelling with the scouts, it is giving us a chance 
to learn Apache tactics. Crawford understands them thoroughly 
and does not attempt to handle them like regulars. It’s a sort 
of a go-as-you-please formation. 

They have a system of sending out advance guards, and others 
work on either side of the main body, but some distance away 
to watch for hostile signs and give warning. As soon as we reach 
camp, they install sentinels their own way. The queer part is 
that everything is executed without an apparent order, and the 
camp is as noiseless as the catacombs when no tourists are around. 

These Apaches are smaller than the Comanehes and Kiowas, 
but the way they scurry over rough mountains would make a 
jack rabbit green with envy. Takes a mighty husky white 
man to keep in sight of their dust on these long marches. 

When on the trail they wear cotton undergarments, moccasins, 
a waist cloth of white cotton with dangling ends, which even the 


100 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


Apaches themselves are learning to call a “gee string.” Their 
blue blouses, like the enlisted men’s, they frequently wear in¬ 
side out. Crawford says that the gray lining is less conspicuous 
than the dark blue cloth against rocks and mountains; and the 
Apaches never miss anything of strategic value. 

We use dry wood and make small fires in the day when among 
rocks. Green logs smoke. No fires are permitted at night, 
even when it is very cold. While our scouts are watching and 
hiding, they know that the hostiles, too, are on the alert. Noth¬ 
ing escapes their notice. 

By the way, Dutchy is with us. Remember Dad saying that 
Dutchy had killed a man at Fort Thomas, but no civil action had 
been taken by Territorial authorities, and he wondered why? 
Well, Dutchy is a dandy scout and he and I are quite chummy. 
We agree in thinking that Crawford is about the finest white 
man in the whole United States. 

Crawford is simply splendid. Takes the brunt of everything, 
never utters an unkind word or allows himself to show irritation. 
No wonder he had such influence over the Indians. I’m learn¬ 
ing how fine a man can be, since I’ve been under him. And he is 
so gentle, too. 

Couldn’t pick a bunch of officers anywhere who could out¬ 
class those I am lucky enough to be with now. It’s a big privi¬ 
lege. They are bully to me. Tell Jerry I wish he were along. 
It would suit him to a T. 

Maybe I’ll have more exciting news in my next, whenever I 
get a chance to send it. The beauty of this work is that you 
never know what minute something may crop up. 

Maus, Crawford, Davis, and Shipp join in messages to you all. 
If we capture Geronimo in time, save dances for Maus and 
Shipp and myself Christmas night. Love to Dad, Mother, and 
heaps for yourself. 

As ever, 

Roy. 

P. S. In addition to picking up Mexican I’m learning the 
Apache lingo now—grunting in different keys. I practise the 
grunts when we hit a bad bit of trail. It helps a lot and sounds 
worse than it really is. 


MUTINY 101 

“Isn’t he fine!” exclaimed Bonita. “Oh, Uncle 
Jim, aren’t you proud of him?” 

“Good boy!” the father answered, as he folded the 
letter and handed it to the girl. 

She started toward the door. “I’ll take it to Aunt 
Marcia at once!” 

“Wait a minute, Bonita. I want to have a little 
talk with you.” 

“About Roy?” She paused with anxious eyes as 
she realized how long his letter had been on the way. 

“No, about—this fellow,” he replied, soberly 
indicating the photograph of Stanley which stood on 
the mantel. 

“Why!” Her eyes were wide with amazement. 

“Bonita”—her guardian turned from the picture 
of the young cavalryman, booted, spurred, and wear¬ 
ing sabre, with jaunty cap and cape—“I have an 
unpleasant duty. There are grave reasons why I 
must ask you not to associate with Lieutenant 
Stanley. In fact, I must insist that you have no 
further acquaintance with him.” 

“ Oh, Uncle Jim! Why do you say that?” she cried 
out sharply. Captain Duncan’s embarrassment 
made him gruff. “I cannot give details. What I 
say must be sufficient. I shall expect you to do as I 
request.” 

He started toward the door, but Bonita reached his 
side and laid her hand on his arm while she looked up 
with pleading eyes. 


102 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

“Uncle Jim, won’t you please tell me what is the 
matter?” 

“It is something that involves very dishonourable 
conduct on the part of Lieutenant Stanley.” He 
stopped suddenly, remembering his wife’s admoni¬ 
tion. “I have nothing more to say.” 

“I don’t believe it!” she flared. “Why don’t you 
explain? It isn’t fair.” 

“I am the best judge of that. You must do as I 
say.” 

“Unless you tell me a good reason, I shall not do it!” 
She faced him with rebellious eyes and crimson cheeks. 

“Yes, you will, young lady!” he replied with an 
assurance that he did not feel. 

“I won’t! So there, now!” A small foot stamped 
on the uncarpeted floor. 

Captain Duncan was a seasoned warrior. He 
knew when to retreat. As he swung on his heel to 
open the door, his glowering gaze rested on the 
portrait of the debonair lieutenant, smiling at him 
from Bonita’s mantel. The captain shut the door 
with a bang, mopped his brow nervously, and re¬ 
turned to his wife’s room. 

“Well, the fat’s in the fire!” he announced grimly 
in reply to her questioning eyes. “Bonita defied 
me—said she would stand by him—and we know she 
will do just what she says! I knew how it would be. 
I had no business meddling in the affair, but you 
insisted-” 


MUTINY 


103 


“ I insisted! Well! If that isn’t just like a man!” 

“ ‘Just like a man !’ ” he echoed wrathf ully. “ What 
do you expect me to be like? An old woman?” 

The connubial council of war terminated half an 
hour later, and Captain Duncan strode angrily across 
the parade ground to answer stable call. 

The familiar summons conjured up a memory of 
times long ago, when he and his friend, Boyd Curtice, 
had walked together while Bonita skipped between 
them, her chubby hands gripped in theirs, and her 
birdlike voice carolling in unison with the bugle: 

“Go down to the stable, all you who are able. 

And give your poor horses some hay and some corn; 

Give your poor horses some hay and some corn. 

Give your poor horses some hay and some corn. 

For if you don’t do it, the colonel will know it ' 

And then you will rue it, as sure as you’re born.” 

“Damn Jerry Stanley, anyhow!” he muttered. 
“I’ll handle him without gloves and settle this 
matter!” 


Chapter XVI 
A Question of Boots 

B ONITA stood staring dazedly at the closed 
door. For a moment she thought that she 
would follow her guardian and insist that he 
tell her plainly what the matter was with Jerry. But 
she turned, instead, to her desk and wrote a note to 
the lieutenant, telling him not to pay any attention to 
anything Uncle Jim might say; that she didn’t know 
what it was all about; and she didn’t believe it, any¬ 
way; and she was, as always, his friend, Bonita. 

Sealing the envelope, she carried the note to the 
kitchen. Aunt Jane was not there, but Lewis, the 
striker who did errands and chores, was just leaving. 

“Take this note to Lieutenant Stanley’s quarters 
and leave it. There is no answer.” 

“Yes, Miss Bonita. Fust call fo’ stables jes’ soun¬ 
ded, an’ I’se gwine ’trectly pas’ deyah right erway.” 

But Jerry was not at home. He had already gone 
to the troop stable: so Lewis, recalling that there was 
no reply, dropped the note in an Indian bowl on the 
hall table where mail and official communications 
were placed during absence of the bachelor officers 
who occupied the quarters. 

104 


A QUESTION OF BOOTS 105 

Official duties of stables were over and the men had 
departed but Lieutenant Stanley, busy teaching 
Tiswin to shake hands, with lumps of sugar as educa¬ 
tional inducements, looked up with a smile as Captain 
Duncan stopped beside him. 

“Good afternoon, Captain. I’m training my horse. 
Great little fellow, isn’t he? I gave a pretty stiff 
price for him, and it screwed me a bit to pay it. But 
he’s worth it, and more, too!” 

Tiswin, as though to corroborate his master’s good 
opinion, lifted his right hoof gingerly and “shook 
hands,” twitching his upper lip for the sugar. 

“No sugar, no shake,” laughed the young officer, 
proudly patting the satiny arched neck and running 
his fingers through the thick mane. “I’ve promised 
Miss Bonita she shall ride Tiswin. She can manage 
any horse that I can ride.” 

He was modest; for he was acknowledged the 
best horseman in the cavalry, not only among the 
officers but also including the enlisted men. 

“Lieutenant Stanley,” the curtly formal tone of 
the older officer brought the younger one erect. As 
he saw Duncan’s unsmiling face Stanley instinctively 
assumed an official attitude and awaited a communi¬ 
cation. 

His hand lifted in salute. 

Captain Duncan flushed and cleared his throat. 
“It is a personal matter; not official. I desire you” 
—he spoke with deliberate emphasis—“to keep away 


106 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

from my home and to discontinue all attentions to 
Miss Curtice.” 

Stanley’s face whitened. He started as though 
struck a physical blow. Tiswin’s lips nipped his 
master’s hand but brought no response. Then the 
young man straightened up tensely. 

“What reason have you, sir, for making such a 
request?” he demanded furiously. 

“I decline to discuss the matter. Sufficient 
reasons probably occur to you. Your attentions to 
Miss Curtice are obnoxious both to Mrs. Duncan 
and to me. I shall expect you to govern yourself 
accordingly.” 

“I do not know what you mean and shall ignore 
your request until you give me a perfectly plain 
reason for it.” 

The reply, spoken deliberately, enraged the captain, 
who realized that he could not quote his authority 
without implicating his wife. Official dignity de¬ 
manded the termination of the discussion, but 
Duncan knew he could not leave until he had the 
upper hand of a situation he had unwillingly pro¬ 
voked. 

“I had assumed that you were a gentleman,” he 
said curtly, “but if you come to my home again 
I shall be forced to treat you like a cur and kick you 
out!” 

Lieutenant Stanley, in quiet rage, measured the 
other man with steady eyes. 


A QUESTION OF BOOTS 107 

“You wear quite a good-sized boot, Captain Dun¬ 
can.” His voice was coolly insolent. 

“You confounded, impertinent young puppy!” 
gasped the older officer, advancing threateningly. 
Stanley waited. 

“I shall respect your wishes so far as calling at 
your home is concerned,” the lieutenant spoke, 
outwardly calm and inwardly seething with rage. 
“But I give you fair warning I do not intend to avoid 
meeting Miss Bonita elsewhere unless she makes that 
request herself.” 

“If you meet her clandestinely I shall take more 
drastic steps and prefer charges against you for con¬ 
duct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman.” 

“I object to that word—clandestine! It is not a 
word to be used in connection with a lady!” 

The younger man’s hands were clenched, his jaws 
set grimly. White with fury they confronted each 
other, murder in their eyes. Lieutenant Stanley 
stepped a pace nearer Captain Duncan. 

“ Damn you! I demand an explanation!” he burst 
forth in uncontrollable rage. 

The captain measured him contemptuously: 
“And damn you, I refuse to give it!” He swung 
about and left the stable. 

Back of him stood a white-lipped young officer 
whose clenched hands and set jaws told the fierce 
battle for self-mastery. 

It was not an easy victory. But Stanley knew 


108 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


that any act which savoured of violence against 
Captain Duncan would result in a court martial 
and subject Bonita to widespread gossip, if not actu¬ 
ally involve her name in official records. 

Deep in thought he reached the hallway of his quar¬ 
ters and, glancing at the table, saw the note in 
Bonita’s writing. 

Hastily he tore it open and read it eagerly. 

“God bless her!” he exclaimed. “She’s true blue. 
I’ll be damned if Duncan or any one else shall keep 
us apart!” 


Chapter XVII 

The Duchess Takes the Helm 

M RS. DUNCAN, who had been nicknamed 
“the Duchess” by the regiment, had 
moved serenely through life, accepting as a 
dower right the homage of husband and son, and 
never experiencing any heavier anxiety regarding 
her household circle than that involved in super¬ 
vising competent servants. 

The Duncans, unlike most army families of those 
days, had a private income apart from the Captain’s 
pay, as Mrs. Duncan had a small fortune in her own 
right. 

So, like an untried ship, the Duchess sailed the 
shallow waters of conventional existence, undis¬ 
turbed by any ripple of emotional storms. Anchored 
safe in port with spotless sails she viewed with in¬ 
flexible severity the battered hulks of humanity 
that had been wrecked in rough, uncharted seas. 

It was thoroughly established that Mrs. Duncan 
had no double standard. She prided herself that 
her door was shut socially to all with the least 
shadow on their reputations; whether the offender 
happened to be a man or a woman. Hence, to be 

109 


110 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


on informal terms of friendship in the Duncan home, 
was equivalant to having the Duchess bestow a 
medal of respectability. As her husband was the 
ranking captain, her influence was important in 
the social life of the regiment. 

She had never been the type, either as girl or 
matron, that offered or invited confidences of senti¬ 
mental nature. Imposingly dignified, her very 
entrance into a room caused an invisible straighten¬ 
ing of vertebral columns. 

From different temperamental causes, but with 
the same result, Bonita’s sensitive shrinking from re¬ 
vealing her inner emotions had begun when she was 
very small. The grief of a broken toy, the hurt of cut 
or bruise, was borne in silence or covered with a laugh. 
But the repressed tears flowed freely in solitude. 

While this characteristic helped form an impass¬ 
able barrier between the girl and Mrs. Duncan, there 
was a comradely understanding between Bonita and 
the Captain. The sudden unaccountable breach 
between them was the first in all her life. But more 
than once she and the Duchess had been on coldly 
official terms because of the girl’s impulsiveness. 

The morning after the stormy interview, Captain 
Duncan was not in the dining room when Bonita 
entered it, but frequently he breakfasted early be¬ 
cause of special duties. 

“Good morning, Aunt Marcia.” 

The Duchess was pouring coffee. She handed the 


THE DUCHESS TAKES THE HELM 111 


cup to the man who was waiting on the table, then 
said, “You may go now, Lewis.” 

He withdrew and silence fell. Bonita recognized 
the symptoms, but her small mouth became stub¬ 
born. She would not speak again until her aunt 
addressed her. And then, as though reading her 
thoughts, Mrs. Duncan spoke: 

“Your uncle left at daybreak with the troop,” 
Mrs. Duncan said, her tone implying that Bonita 
was responsible for his departure. 

“Oh, Aunt Marcia!”—the girl’s eyes filled with 
tears—“why didn’t he say good-bye to me?” 

“After your conversation yesterday, you must 
realize that another good-bye would be superfluous. 
You told him that you had nothing further to say. 
Naturally, he believed it.” 

“But I wanted to talk with him this morning.” 
The words rushed out in a flood of emotion. “Oh, 
I am so sorry he went away angry at me; but I don’t 
think he was fair!” 

“You are not old enough, nor wise enough, to form 
any independent opinion.” The icy voice lashed 
Bonita into a quick rage. “We decline to go into 
particulars with you.” 

Nita sprang to her feet, “I insist-” she began 

tempestuously, but Mrs. Duncan continued calmly, 
“Mr. Stanley knows that we are justified in our 
attitude toward him.” 

“I don’t believe-” 



112 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


“For the sake of the regiment,” the older woman 
went on, ignoring the interruptions, “I hope that the 
matter will not go further than merely ostracizing 
him.” 

Bonita stood with defiantly lifted chin and re¬ 
garded the other woman furiously. The captain’s 
wife coolly poured another cup of coffee and care¬ 
fully measured the cream. 

“Sit down, Bonita. You certainly should have 
sense enough to know that we are trying to save you 
from a false position in case this matter regarding 
Mr. Stanley should reach official status. That 
would mean his resignation, or a court martial.” 

“Aunt Marcia, please tell me-” 

“I have nothing to add. Sit down and finish your 
breakfast and don’t make a scene. We are late and 
the servants are waiting.” 

Bonita sank back into her chair, aware of the utter 
futility of argument or protest. Silent, but not 
convinced, she forced herself to continue her break¬ 
fast. Mrs. Duncan, with the calm magnanimity of 
one who has scored a victory, rose with a smile and 
left the table. 

As the door closed behind the lady, Bonita’s eyes 
flashed, her lips tightened, and her hands clenched. 
Resentment grew by leaps and bounds until it be¬ 
came a tornado of rage. With an ominous gleam in 
her eyes she hastened to the front porch and watched 
the path toward the adjutant’s office. 



THE DUCHESS TAKES THE HELM 113 

She did not have to wait very long before Lieu¬ 
tenant Stanley, evidently in deepest thought, made 
his way along the pathway and turned toward The 
Folly. Bonita went down the steps toward the gate 
and waited. As he approached he glanced up and 
saw her outstretched hand and smiling face. But 
his own countenance was very sober as he took her 
hand in his own. 

“I did not get your note until after I had re¬ 
turned from stables,” he said. “Thank you for 
what you wrote.” 

“What on earth is the matter, Jerry?” she asked* 
looking up at him and touching his sleeve im¬ 
pulsively. 

“I don’t know,” he replied earnestly, his eyes on 
the hand that still rested on his arm. “All I can say 
is that when a fellow has been trying to walk for¬ 
ward all his life, it isn’t natural for him to walk back¬ 
ward. Not”—he paused and met her eyes steadily 
—“not when everything that his heart desires is in 
front of him.” 

“Well, I don’t care what any one says”—her voice 
vibrated tensely—“I believe in you!” 

“Then I can fight the world and win!” 

They heard Mrs. Duncan’s step and turned toward 
the porch. She stood in the doorway, the personi¬ 
fication of virtue defending the home. Her cool blue 
eyes arraigned the culprits. 

Lieutenant Stanley lifted his cap and looked di- 


114 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


rectly at her, but the captain’s wife ignored him. The 
cut was unmistakable, and Bonita flushed painfully. 
Her eyes filled with tears but Stanley smiled at her 
reassuringly and said, “Never mind. I will go.” 

She held her head high and reached out her hand 
as she spoke very distinctly, so that Mrs. Duncan 
would hear the words: “Au revoir, Jerry.” 

“Au revoir,” he replied, but his eyes said much 
more as he bowed formally and turned away. 

Bonita watched him go down the line, shoulders 
squared, a gallant young figure, and her heart 
throbbed with pride, love, and indignation. Suppose 
he had broken some of the silly regulations! No 
one but very old officers could remember them, 
anyway. 

She moved toward the steps where Mrs. Duncan 
waited truculently. 

“Well, Bonita”—the accents were glacial—“have 
you elected yourself Mr. Stanley’s champion?” 

Bonita paused and looked with flashing eyes into 
Mrs. Duncan’s implacable face. Slowly the girl 
went up the steps until she stood in front of her 
guardian; then very quietly, very positively, she 
answered, “Yes!” and walked past Mrs. Duncan 
into the house. 

But she would have felt less assurance had she seen 
the peculiar gleam of the older woman’s eyes and the 
tightly compressed lips as Mrs. Duncan watched 
Lieutenant Stanley’s receding back. 


THE DUCHESS TAKES THE HELM 115 


All those who once had read these storm signals 
knew that cyclonic weather impended. And further 
that the Duchess invariably weathered the gale and 
rode safely into the port for which she had been steer¬ 
ing, though smaller craft fared disastrously. 


Chapter XVIII 

Christmas at old Fort Grant 

D URING the weeks that followed, Bonita 
continued to meet Jerry Stanley in open 
defiance of her guardians, and the newest 
regimental bride, doubly sentimental in the absence 
of her husband on duty, braved the wrath of the 
Duchess and welcomed the young people in her 
home. Absorbed in each other, they did not notice 
that Mrs. Leslie spent much of her time in another 
part of the house, presumably surpervising culinary 
mysteries; whereas the good little soul was more often 
in her own room, where murmuring voices were in¬ 
audible, while she contemplated with understanding 
smile a photograph of her husband which adorned 
her bureau. 

In The Folly a conventional armistice between 
Mrs. Duncan and her ward to a certain extent pre¬ 
vented servants’ gossip; but the breach was too 
pronounced to escape some comment. Both Bonita 
and Mrs. Duncan knew that there was no possibility 
of capitulation on either side. 

The girl had written a note to the captain, spon- 
116 


CHRISTMAS AT OLD FORT GRANT 117 


taneous in its expression of regret that he had not said 
farewell to her, but she received no answer, and so 
understood that the captain’s wife kept him fully 
informed regarding the situation in the garrison. 

Once or twice Bonita had been tempted to write 
Roy of the matter, but on reflection decided not to do 
so. The situation was peculiar because she still had 
not the least idea of what the trouble was really 
about, and Jerry was equally ignorant, as she knew. 

Conditions remained unchanged when Christmas 
dawned on a garrison blanketed with snow. The 
white storm had continued all day, but was not al¬ 
lowed to interfere with festivities already planned. 
Each home held its family celebration during the 
day, so that the evening would be free for a general 
affair. 

Christmas in a frontier garrison in those days was a 
signal for community rejoicing, with a tree for all the 
children, irrespective of their parents’ rank or colour; 
a formal ball for the officers’ families in the evening, 
and in the barracks the enlisted men exchanged 
tokens and anticipated the Christmas dinner. 

Christmas in the old Tenth Cavalry! Who that 
once shared it can ever forget? 

Weeks ahead each mess sergeant and each troop 
cook had darkly plotted to out-do the other. 

When that feast had been prepared, the table was 
spread with snowy linen and the “company silver,” 
with big goblets, all bearing the emblem of the troops 


118 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


—crossed sabres, the troop letter, and the regimental 
number 10—while the white china edged with gold 
was marked with the same insignia. 

Spick and span the soldiers were lined against the 
walls of the mess hall of each troop, their eyes shin¬ 
ing, their mouths watering at the sight and smell of 
the turkeys, the small shoats holding apples in their 
mouths and decorated with Christmas green, cran¬ 
berries, sweet potatoes, mince pie, nuts, raisins, can¬ 
dies—all were there, fit for the commanding general! 

And then through the door came the officers and 
ladies, to inspect, compare, and compliment the 
mess sergeant and the cook, and finally to decide 
which troop had accomplished the finest dinner. For 
it had all been bought with troop funds saved for that 
very purpose by the men themselves. 

Later in the evening, before the officers’ ball be¬ 
gan, the coloured soldiers had their own dance in one 
of the mess halls; and it was not considered properly 
begun until the officers’ families had “opened de 
ball.” The men in their dark blue uniforms and 
white cotton gloves, eyes and teeth gleaming white 
in their black faces, stood respectfully while the 
officers and ladies danced the first waltz and then 
withdrew from the floor. 

How the musicians played! 

Back and forth, swinging, laughing, bowing, and 
side-stepping, with now and then a pigeon-wing by 
some exuberant spirit, they wove in and out in the 


CHRISTMAS AT OLD FORT GRANT 119 

sheer jollity of the occasion, with the black belles of 
the post swaying joyously at their sides. Not one 
among them but wished in his heart that Santa had 
been born triplets. 

And then, the glory of glories! Two by two they 
walked and danced before the judges who decided 
which couple was the most graceful, when to that 
envied pair was awarded a huge cake decorated with 
elaborate icing. 

How they laughed! How they danced! In those 
bygone days of the old Tenth Cavalry! Yet ready 
to leap to their saddles and follow the officers they 
loved, though following meant to die. 

And it was the boast of the whole regiment in those 
times that not once had a negro soldier of the Tenth 
betrayed the trust of his officers. In lonely camps, 
on trails where hostile Indians lurked, families of 
officers had been entrusted to these men, who would 
have laid down their own lives to protect the white 
women and children whom they guarded. 

While the enlisted men and their families were en¬ 
joying their own festivities, along the officers’ line 
all were anticipating the evening dance. 

The tete-a-tete dinner at The Folly had not been 
hilarious. 

“The ambulance will call at half-past nine,” ad¬ 
vised Mrs. Duncan in an impersonally polite voice as 
they rose from the table. 

“I will be ready,” answered the girl. 


120 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


In the absence of Roy and his father, it had been 
arranged that Bonita and Mrs. Duncan should be 
gathered up with the other official widows in the big 
ambulance—an appropriate vehicle for dismembered 
families. 

Bonita went to her room, glad to be alone for a 
while. All day she had felt an intense depression. 
Jane called such moods “ prees.” Bonita called them 
cloud shadows because they were just as intangible 
and evanescent as clouds. 

As far back as she could remember, these moods 
had been part of her life. As a child, she had 
grown to dread the shadow of a cloud. When one 
had drifted near, she had always closed her eyes that 
she might not see when it touched her. Yet she 
had always known when it reached her, and not until 
her outstretched hands felt the warmth of the sun 
did she open her eyes. 

All day that sense of the cloud shadow had been 
strong. Not even the prospect of the ball could 
drive it away; and hoping to escape her mood she 
sat down to reread some of the letters that were 
scattered among parcels on her table—schoolgirl 
confidences, Christmas plans and greetings from 
former classmates. She glanced at them and put 
them aside to take up the letter from Roy. It 
seemed almost as though he had known she would 
need a cheering message and had planned to have it 
reach her on the very day she would need it. But it 


CHRISTMAS AT OLD FORT GRANT 121 

had been fifteen days on the way and showed the 
effect of much rough handling. 

Huasavas, Bavispe Valley, 
Mexico. 

December 10 , 1885. 

Dear Bonita: 

Here we are, and Christmas only two weeks away. No pros¬ 
pect of claiming a dance on Christmas night, but Jerry may have 
what belongs to me. None of us count on a tree or turkey, but we 
did see some lemon and orange trees here in full bearing. High 
mountains all around this valley and it could be made a wonder 
spot. But so long as a Mexican has frijoles enough for manana, 
the rest of the world may go to pot before he will work. 

I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw carts with wheels 
that were just slices from big logs, and the ploughs are merely 
pointed sticks of wood. They use oxen for teams, but one team 
I saw consisted of the family cow and a burro! Can you imagine 
the combination? The family in the chariot, from great-grand¬ 
mother down to a baby, seemed satisfied and proud, and passed 
us with scornful glances. 

The only flour we can get is from corn grown and dried by the 
women. They work the dry kernels into a meal by means of a 
hollowed stone into which a smaller one fits, like a ball and 
socket. Looks easy to handle, for little girls only five and six 
years old grind the meal rapidly. I tried it. But all I got 
after half an hour’s honest labour was a choice collection of 
blisters on my palms. Then a small girl airily showed me how 
easy it was—for her. 

These people have lived in terror of the Apaches for years and it 
took careful handling to avoid complications when they saw our 
Apache scouts. Unfortunately, mescal is sold wherever there is 
a settlement of huts, and two of our scouts got drunk. One 
scout was unarmed. A Mexican policeman shot him. Then 
the second scout, who was armed, promptly shot Mr. Policeman. 
Then the scout who had done the shooting decided it was “Home, 
sweet home” for him, and bolted for our camp muy pronto. 


122 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


Lieutenant Maus happened to be on his way into the town 
from camp and saw our scout on the jump with two policemen 
following and firing at him. They had managed to put a bullet 
through the Indian’s jaw, but that didn’t bother him so long as 
his legs were in working order. And they sure were! 

It was a ticklish situation, and you may figure out the wonder¬ 
ful influence of Crawford and Maus over our scouts when you 
learn that though every man-jack of them was prepared and 
determined to make an attack on the town in reprisal, the 
trouble was averted. 

It all began over some trivial violation of a local law that no 
one knew much about, not even the citizens of the town. The 
whole affair wound up with a payment of five dollars fine and the 
scouts were released from the calaboose. 

But we had been sitting on a powder keg those few hours, and 
what might have been an international rumpus ended like a comic 
opera, with all of us shaking hands with the officials and citizens 
of the town. 

Anyway, we have learned here that the hostiles are killing 
stock and slaughtering people south of us. It is authentic news. 
So we are heading for Granada. That sounds like Spanish 
romance, but we know better. 

And near Granada is—Bacedahuachi! Get that? 

Don’t try to pronounce it. But you ought to hear how 
grandly the Mayor of Huasavas rolls it off! He told me how to 
spell it. I don’t try to say it. I have it written down, and when 
I need the name I take out that paper and flourish it. Every¬ 
one knows that paper now. Even the scouts grin when they see 
it. 

They say there is a fine old Mission at Backy (for short) but 
from present indications Geronimo won’t give us time for sight¬ 
seeing trips. 

Am feeling fine. Less flesh, but muscles hardening every day. 
Crawford looks badly. His iron will keeps him up, but the pace 
is grilling him. He never complains. Only when he gets into 
camp we can see his whole frame collapse. 

Of course, the heaviest responsibilities are on his shoulders, 


CHRISTMAS AT OLD FORT GRANT 123 

though Maus is fine in taking his share, as well as all of Craw¬ 
ford’s that he can lift. The rest of us just do what we are able 
to ease things for both of them. I tell you, Nita, this kind of 
work—shoulder to shoulder—teaches one the bigness of real 
men. 

Captain Crawford just said that he sends Christmas greetings 
and wishes that he and I were near enough to drop in on you 
folks and share the evening and Jane’s Christmas dinner. But 
we will all celebrate together when oldGeronimohas been rounded 
up and Johnny comes marching home again! 

Heaps of love for you and Mother, and a jolly Christmas Day, 

As ever, 

Roy. 

Jane rapped at Bonita’s door and entered with a 
small box. “A sojer done lef’ dis fo’ yo’, honey-chile. 
An’ I’se raidy ter dress yo’ now.” 

Curiously the girl opened the box and lifted the 
white tissue paper. 

“Oh! How beautiful!” she cried in delight, as 
she saw the gray-green leaves and waxen berries of 
mistletoe. There was no card, no note. She did not 
need it. She understood. Close by the old syca¬ 
more on Grant Creek grew stately oaks and clus¬ 
ters of mistletoe hung from the branches. It was 
Jerry’s Christmas message. 

“I will wear some of it on my gown to-night.” 
She did not glance up at Jane as she arranged the 
exquisite sprays in a bowl of water. 

But Jane was not deceived. Her baleful eyes 
glared at the pearly berries as she busied herself 
about the room. If the old woman could have re- 


124 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


sorted to ancient voodoo customs of her forebears, she 
would not have hesitated to poke sharp pins into 
each and every berry, hoping to “conjure” the man 
who had sent them to her young mistress. Jane 
scowled. She was a practising Christian—and be¬ 
sides, she did not know where to find any one who 
knew how to conjure. 

Bonita, with a happy smile on her lips and her eyes 
sparkling radiantly, held out her hands before her. 

The cloud shadow was gone. The sun was shining 
again. 


Chapter XIX 
“Only To-night!” 

W HEN the ambulance reached the hop room 
lights streamed through the uncurtained 
windows and open door. 

Already the first arrivals were trying out the floor 
which had been liberally waxed earlier in the day. 
Stanley had directed a small squad of men who 
whittled tallow candles and tobogganed until the 
rough floor would form less resistance to dancing 
feet. 

Bonita, entering the hall, saw the young officer 
marching around, candle and penknife in hand, 
gravely testing and correcting neglected spots. It 
was a self-appointed duty in every frontier garrison, 
and the shave-tails never shirked it. 

Wrapped in a white swansdown-trimmed cloak, the 
girl walked demurely behind her chaperon and dis¬ 
appeared back of a tall screen labelled “Ladies’ Dress¬ 
ing Room.” In a few moments Mrs. Duncan 
emerged, and Bonita slowly crossed the ballroom—a 
slender, white-gowned figure with ungloved dimpled 
arms and rounded girlish throat. Against her dark 

125 


126 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

hair and among the laces of her dress mistletoe was 
fastened. 

Many of the soldiers, with their wives, had de¬ 
serted their own dance long enough to look at the 
officers’ ball, and their Christmas faces shone through 
the windows like ebony jack o’ lanterns. Aunt 
Jane and old Sergeant Faulkner were wedged tightly 
in front of the others, and their broad smiles answered 
Bonita’s gay little nod of recognition. Directly 
back of Aunt Jane’s grizzled head an Indian scout 
watched curiously. 

He had never seen an officers’ dance, for Pacer had 
always lived on the San Carlos Reservation, where 
only officers and soldiers were stationed. There were 
no accommodations for families, as the five thou¬ 
sand Apaches crowded about the little garrison of 
San Carlos made it rather unsafe in event of any 
sudden uprising. 

Unusually tall for a San Carlos Apache, Pacer’s 
physique was superb. Pride that bordered on 
arrogance showed in every movement, but his 
bronze-red face, sternly handsome, was devoid of 
expression; even when his dark eyes dwelt upon the 
girl who nodded and smiled at the old Negro woman 
and man, no flicker of lids or gleam of interest be¬ 
trayed his thoughts. 

Two days before Christmas the Indian had arrived 
at Fort Grant with other scouts, who waited to be 
assigned to some troop in the field. Pacer had been 


“ONLY TO-NIGHT!” 


m 


very proud when he had been accepted as a govern¬ 
ment scout. Curiously, Christmas night, he had 
followed the soldiers across the parade ground to the 
hop room. And now his eyes intently watched the 
white-gowned girl who stood against the dark green 
of a cedar tree. 

Though robbed of its gifts the sprays and ropes of 
tinsel still remained. Each strand was festooned 
from the outer points of the limbs to the very top of 
the tree, making a skeleton canopy that ended at the 
tip in a big silver star. 

The Apache’s eyes moved slowly from the girl’s 
face to the star high above her head. To him she 
seemed the spirit of a star that had slipped down 
into a silver tepee hidden in the heart of a great 
forest. 

Pacer, peering through the window, saw a tall, 
blond young officer hastening toward the girl, whose 
welcoming smile told a story that Pacer understood. 
But Stanley and Bonita were oblivious to those about 
them. The always convenient excuse of a lost 
handkerchief had been murmured into Mrs. Dun¬ 
can’s left ear by the girl, while an interesting bit 
of gossip was being imparted to the right ear by 
Mrs. Garth, who was called the Garrison Daily 
News. 

Though Bonita actually went behind the screen, 
she was perfectly aware that the handkerchief was in 
its proper place. Very slowly she moved toward the 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


ns 

tree and watched Stanley approach her, while his 
eager eyes looked at the spray of mistletoe upon her 
breast, then met her own. 

“Thank you for the mistletoe, Jerry,” she said, 
dimpling. 

“I got it this morning for you,” he replied. “It 
was growing near our tree.” 

She flushed at what she saw in his eyes and turned 
her face toward the window to cover her confus¬ 
ion. 

“Have you saved a dance for me?” the young 
officer asked in a matter-of-fact voice. “Let me 
see your card.” 

“I haven’t any card. Aunt Marcia has mine. 
She’s taking care of it.” Bonita’s eyes challenged 
him to get it if he dared. 

“I won’t disturb her,” answered Stanley gravely. 
“She’s enjoying a chat with Mrs. Garth just now. 
Never mind! I’ll find a nice fresh card for you. 
Don’t stir from here till I get back.” 

She nodded. The Christmas tree branches reached 
out like friendly arms to screen the girl from the 
Duchess’s vision. It was a strategic point and 
Stanley had not been slow in recognizing its value. 
Programme in hand he retraced his steps, but as the 
dancers swung near, he paused a moment, and in that 
interval he caught a glimpse of the dark faces pressed 
against the window and the eyes of the Apache scout 
watching the girl. With an impatient jerk Stanley 


“ONLY TO-NIGHT! 


129 


moved nearer the window. Pacer’s gaze turned 
slowly, impassively. The eyes of the two men— 
civilized and savage—clashed like tempered steel 
against crude flint. 

Then Pacer faded into the outer darkness. Stanley 
went over to the tree and triumphantly held out the 
programme. 

“Here is a beautiful clean page, fit for an angel’s 
record,” he announced. “I’m not going to let any 
one spoil it by scribbling an unworthy name upon it. 
Here’s a waltz—that’s mine. The next is a schot- 

tische—mine, too—and this-” he laughed and 

scrawled his name boldly the entire length and 
breadth of the programme. 

Bonita’s eyes twinkled mischievously as she mur¬ 
mured, “And lo! Abou ben Adhem grabs the rest!” 

Laughing, they swung into the dance. His fair 
head bent over her and a wisp of her dark hair 
touched his cheek as he said, “Abou is entitled to 
special privileges to-night.” 

She looked up quickly. 

“I’m leaving in the morning for Fort Bowie. 
Have a small detachment of Indians for special duty 
patrolling the border,” he answered her question¬ 
ing eyes. 

“To-morrow?” Her voice was almost inaudible. 

“Yes. Before reveille.” 

Again the cloud shadow touched her. She shivered 
involuntarily and Stanley drew her close. Softly he 


130 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

sang the words of the music—words they had often 
sung together—“Our Last Waltz.” 

“Only to-night, just for to-night. 

Hark to the old refrain! 

Only to-night, just as of old. 

But never for us again!” 

He guided her away from the other dancers, and 
as they reached the half-opened door he picked up 
his yellow-lined cape from a chair. 

“Come outside,” he said, placing the cape about 
her shoulders. And they passed from the brilliantly 
lighted room to the porch. 

Across the parade ground and as far as the eye 
could scan lay dazzling, unbroken snow. After¬ 
clouds of the storm scudded across the moon. The 
sound of music drifting from the hop room became 
a part of the night. And the night was the uni¬ 
verse. 

There is a time in every life—a day, a night, an 
hour—which stands supreme. Though years of 
sorrow, heartache, and disillusion may pass, that 
golden memory remains forever undimmed, and the 
light of its glory touches the stones one sees through 
blinding tears and treads with bleeding feet. 

The soft light of the hidden moon fell upon Bonita’s 
face. The man looked down into her eyes, into her 
heart. She did not try to hide it. Slowly, strongly 
she felt herself drawn toward him until his arms held 


“ONLY TO-NIGHT!” 131 

her in tense embrace. Ecstasy that was almost pain 
swept over her as his lips touched her own. 

“Bonita,” he whispered brokenly, “X am not 
worthy of your pure love. But oh, my dear, my 
dear! If you should call me, I would hear you and 
come, even though I were dead!” 


Chapter XX 

The Clod and the Star 


B ONITA, come in at once!” 

Mrs. Duncan faced them with flashing eyes 
and stood beside the open door until Stanley 
and Bonita had entered the ballroom. Then the 
Captain’s wife followed regally, intent upon making 
her ward sit beside her for the rest of the evening. 

But the Virginia Reel was already forming, and 
it was the time-honoured custom of the Tenth that 
everyone should participate in this dance. The 
younger people dubbed it the dance of the lame and 
the halt and the blind, and it always terminated with 
a few bars of the last waltz—“Home, Sweet Home.” 

Despite Mrs. Duncan’s efforts Bonita slipped into a 
place between Mrs. Leslie and Mrs. Crane, both of 
whom sympathized in the rebellion of the young 
people. Opposite the girl, Stanley edged his way 
between the men. Very carefully he had selected 
the middle of the long line, and while awaiting the 
evolutions of those at the head, he kept slipping 
away from the men’s line to stand back of the girl 
and talk over her shoulder. Only the cries, “Your 

132 


THE CLOD AND THE STAR 


133 


turn next!”—“Come back where you belong, Stan¬ 
ley !”—caused him temporarily to resume his proper 
place in the dance, then return to Bonita. 

Impressively gowned in rich black velvet, her 
glossy, raven-black hair dressed high, glacial blue 
eyes and face set in a frozen smile, Mrs. Duncan 
walked through the Reel with the dignity of a genuine 
duchess. Her gloved fingers, extended as required 
to each of the men, adroitly manipulated a lorgnette 
and evaded contact with Stanley’s outstretched hand. 

The music ceased and the musicians rose to gather 
up their instruments, while the dancers skirmished 
for wraps. In the midst of the laughing group 
Bonita stood beside Stanley, both strangely silent and 
with serious faces. 

One by one, with merry good-nights, different 
couples started to their homes. The ambulance was 
waiting for unescorted ladies. Bonita dallied, hoping 
against hope that she might be able to walk across 
the moonlit parade ground with Jerry. But Mrs. 
Duncan’s gesture was peremptory. 

Stanley stepped forward with the girl at his side, 
and said quietly, “Mrs. Duncan, I am leaving for 
scout duty before reveille in the morning. Might 
I walk home with Miss Bonita?” 

“ That is out of the question.” The voice was arctic. 

“Then might I come in for a few moments to¬ 
night? There is something important I would like 
very much to speak to you about.” 


134 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


“My husband prohibited you from entering our 
home. I have nothing more to say. Come, Bonita. 
W r e are detaining the ambulance.” 

But the girl turned impulsively and held out both 
her hands. He clasped them tightly. 

“Good-bye, Jerry. I won’t forget!” 

“No—not good-bye, just au revoir, beloved!” 

Mrs. Duncan gasped. For Stanley had taken 
Bonita in his arms. Her head was against his 
breast and her face was lifted to meet his kiss— 
the face of a child but the eyes of a woman. Then 
without a word or glance at Mrs. Duncan, the 
young officer helped Bonita into the cavernous 
depths of the vehicle. Somehow the captain’s wife 
managed to gather her skirts and stumble up the 
steps and into a seat. She was breathless—speech¬ 
less. 

During the short drive neither Bonita nor Mrs. 
Duncan uttered a word. The older woman did not 
pause in the hall for conversation, and Bonita, glad 
to avoid discussion, hastened to her own room. 

Carefully she clipped each tiny bit of mistletoe 
from her gown and laid the delicate sprays away in a 
box. What matter that they would shrivel and grow 
unlovely in a few more hours? She knew that the 
most exquisite and rarest of flowers would never mean 
as much to her as the faded berries among broken 
dead leaves. 

In her dimly lighted room she knelt at her bedside, 


THE CLOD AND THE STAR 


135 


a white-gowned figure with loosened hair falling 
over her shoulders. 

“Dear God,” she prayed with trembling lips and 
eyes full of happy tears, “make me worthy of his 
love and bring him back safely to me!” 

And while she slept, outside the hop room, now 
dark and silent as a tomb, Pacer stood. He was 
still seeing the girl whose face was alight with joy 
and whose eyes gleamed with laughter as she looked 
up at the young officer. 

Pacer turned slowly away from the deserted hall, 
only to pause after he had gone a few steps. Stoop¬ 
ing, he picked up a clod of earth that protruded 
above the snow. His fingers closed tightly and 
crushed the clod into a broken mass which he al¬ 
lowed to fall from his slowly opening palm as his 
eyes gazed at a star that gleamed serenely far away. 


Chapter XXI 
As a Valkyr Rides 

B ONITA awakened long before reveille the 
morning after the dance, and still dreaming, 
lay quietly until a sudden thought roused her 
to action. 

Slipping into her riding habit she ran through the 
long hall and into the kitchen, where Aunt Jane 
was hovering over the stove. Lewis, the striker, 
was replenishing the wood box. Both of them turned 
in surprise as she entered. 

“Yo’ sut’nly is a yearly bu’d dis mawnin’.” 
The old woman stopped stirring her buckwheat bat¬ 
ter and peered over her spectacles. “Whut yo’ 
projeckin’ to do, honey-chile?” 

“What should an early bird do but fly?” the girl 
retorted gaily. 

Aunt Jane chuckled and the striker’s grinning face 
appeared like a dark moon above an armful of split 
wood. 

“Bring up my horse, Lewis,” Bonita ordered. 
“Yessum.” The soldier dropped the wood with a 
crash, straightened up and brushed his hands to- 
136 


AS A VALKYR RIDES 


137 


gether above the wood box. “Hit’s powerful cold 
dis mawnin’. Miss Bonita,” he volunteered as he 
reached for his cap. 

“The sun will soon be up,” she replied, “and I 
want to get a good ride before reveille. So hurry as 
fast as you can.” 

The man disappeared and Bonita turned to Jane. 
“Give me a big cup of coffee, Aunt Jane. It smells 
good!” 

Jane’s face was sober as she watched the girl 
drinking the coffee. , Don’s hoofs clattered in the 
backyard, and Bonita picked up gauntlets and riding 
whip. The old woman followed her to the door and 
gently laid her work-gnarled fingers on the girl’s 
arm. Bonita paused and smiled down at the black, 
wrinkled face. 

“Looky out an’ doan’ yo’ git hu’t, honey-chile,” 
the voice was very earnest. “Looky out an’ doan’ 
yo’ git hu’t!” 

“Why, Aunt Jane!” a peal of merry laughter 
answered, “what on earth can hurt me? I can 
manage Don.” 

Jane’s head wagged soberly. “When de young 
bu’d is jes’ boun’ hit’s gwineter fly, dar ain’t nuffin de 
ol’ mudder bu’d kin say ter mek hit un’stan’ ’bout 
rattlesnakes an’ hawks an’ guns, twill hit’s done 
foun’ out fo’ hitself, an’ den heaps ob times hit 
doan’ git no chanst ter use hit’s ’speriunce, caze 
hit’s daid!” 


138 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


“You’re a dear old goose yourself!” cried the girl, 
turning in her saddle to wave her whip gaily at the 
bent figure in the door. “Better watch out for 
foxes. They love geese—and so do I!” 

Jane went slowly back to her stove, her eyes dim 
with tears. 

But Bonita sang softly as she started on her early 
ride, sure that she would be able to meet Jerry as he 
was leaving the garrison. 

The snow had already thawed in many places and 
she watched closely for fresh hoof-prints in the soft 
ground. Several horsemen had passed that way, and 
fearing that Jerry might already have started, she 
urged Don to a stiff gallop until he reached a bit of 
high ground which commanded a view for many miles 
over the flat country. 

Nothing moved on the road toward Willcox so far 
as she could see. It was too late. He had started 
even more early than she had expected. 

Impatiently turning Don’s head toward the heart 
of the valley, she rode slowly, aimlessly, for some 
miles, then reined him homeward, following a road 
that led through the small settlement at the end of 
the barbed-wire lane. 

Just outside frontier military reservations in 
those days the vultures of humanity waited their 
prey. During daylight the doors of these places 
were closed, but at night lights beckoned the garri¬ 
son. 


AS A VALKYR RIDES 


139 


Bonita, who had heard vaguely of these condi¬ 
tions, instinctively pressed her heel against Don’s 
side, and he galloped past the shacks that straggled 
on the outskirts. A thick network of willows 
growing on the banks of a big irrigation ditch 
screened her from observation, though the branches 
were leafless. These willows had been planted in 
order to strengthen the sides of the water course. 

Knowing that breakfast would not be ready until 
after guard-mounting, the girl rode slowly now, 
noting how the willow roots, like gigantic basket- 
work, supported the banks of the acequia. Her 
thoughts were interrupted when Don started and 
flung up his head suddenly. His ears cocked and he 
twisted his neck so that he could see through the 
barricade. Bonita leaned curiously from her saddle. 
Through a thin patch of interlaced twigs she saw 
another horse—a roan horse—Tiswin! 

She jerked the reins so sharply that Don ploughed 
the moist ground with his front hoofs. The man 
she loved, the man she had trusted and whom she 
had believed was now on his way to Fort Bowie, was 
standing beside Tiswin engrossed in confidential 
conversation with a woman, and that woman was 
Juana Gonzales. 

Fearing that Don might whinny and betray her 
presence, she slipped to the ground and caught his 
nostrils firmly. It was not because she wished to 
watch the man and the woman, but because she could 


140 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

not stand the humiliation of being discovered by 
them. 

The Mexican woman laid a familiar hand on 
Stanley’s arm and Bonita flinched as though feeling 
a blow. Coquetry, entreaty, and demand spoke in 
Juana’s alluring pose. Even when Stanley had 
mounted his horse, the woman still clung to his 
stirrup, her face uplifted as he leaned down talking 
rapidly. 

Tiswin raised his head fractiously and gave a 
shrill call to the horse in the willows. Don pawed 
resentfully and tried to shake off the slender, tense 
fingers that gripped his nostrils. 

Sick with horror, Bonita saw the young officer 
hurriedly thrust a roll of money into the woman’s 
extended hand. In another instant he had struck 
his spurs into Tiswin’s sides. 

With an angry snort the horse leaped and whirled 
about and dashed on his way. 

But the girl in the willows was silent. She made 
no effort to mount and ride with him on the road to 
Bowie, as she had planned so happily before reveille. 

She stood immovable among the sheltering 
branches and watched Tiswin carrying his rider out 
of sight; then she looked at the woman counting the 
money, bill by bill. 

The greenbacks fluttered in the hand which 
Juana lifted to wave a saucy farewell, and Bonita saw 
white teeth gleaming between the woman’s smiling 


AS A VALKYR RIDES 


141 


scarlet lips. Then she saw the black shawl fall away 
from Juana’s head and shoulders, revealing the un¬ 
mistakable outline of approaching maternity as the 
Mexican walked quickly down the pathway on the 
opposite side of the big ditch and disappeared in her 
house. 

Bonita stood staring at the closed door. At last 
her trembling fingers slipped from Don’s nostrils and 
she clutched the horn of her sidesaddle. But when 
she tried to mount, her relaxed muscles rebelled. 
Unable to gain the saddle and unable to keep still, 
she moved along the edge of the ditch. Don obeyed 
the rein that hung loosely from her hand, but she did 
not know that she was leading him. 

Dazed, disillusioned, crushed by the revelation of 
Jerry’s deception and dishonour, she stumbled 
blindly over .the rough adobe ground and through 
little pools of water which had been formed by the 
fast-melting snow. 

Then strength returned to her trembling limbs. 
She was a soldier’s daughter. “Head up, eyes front, 
face the bullets,” her father had said to her when she, 
a tiny child, had run to him sobbing out a hurt or 
grief. 

“Head up, eyes front, face the bullets!” 

He seemed to be standing beside her now, re¬ 
peating the words. Everyone else had failed her, 
but no one should know the hurt. “Head up—eyes 
front!” 


142 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


She gained her saddle, but not yet able to meet the 
cool, searching eyes of Mrs. Duncan, the girl turned 
her horse toward the valley. Don jerked stubbornly 
toward the garrison. 

Bonita raised her whip and brought it down 
furiously. Once, twice, again and again it slashed 
Don’s shining flanks, and the horse leaped with a 
snort of rage. Maddened by the vicious cuts he 
tore across the flat unguided by the reins in the girl’s 
hand. She did not care where he went or what 
might happen. Again the whip slashed. 

Above the pounding of wildly racing hoofs rang her 
laughter—laughter more tragic than tears—the 
laughter of despair. So the Valkyrs laughed—so 
the Valkyrs rode when Valhalla was destroyed. 

For miles she rode, then almost unconsciously 
reined Don homeward. When she reached The Folly 
the horse, worn from the furious pace, stood with 
heaving sides and flanks crusted with dry lather. 
On his back sat a girl with pale face and eyes of 
smouldering fire. 

The sun was straight overhead. Only muddy 
splotches here and there remained of the Christmas 
snow. 

Bonita dismounted and Lewis came from the 
house. 

“Rub Don well and blanket him.” The girl’s 
voice was cool and steady. 

“Yessum. Ah’ll tek cayah ob him.” 


143 


AS A VALKYR RIDES 

She did not hear his reply as she went up the steps 
and into the hallway, hoping to gain her own room 
unobserved. 

“Bonita!” Mrs. Duncan spoke from the front 
room. 

The girl’s lips tightened as she turned and faced 
the older woman who held a letter. 

“Yes, Aunt Marcia?” 

“I have a letter from the captain. He has ob¬ 
tained permission for us to go to the camp and 
remain there with him.” 

Mrs. Duncan awaited a reply. Bonita had moved 
across to the fireplace but she did not speak. Her 
guardian went on reading portions of the letter. 

The girl stood looking down at the broken bit of 
carved ivory which dangled from her wrist. As she 
recalled the day that Jerry had brought the whip to 
her, a peculiar smile touched her white lips, and she 
slowly pulled the fragment from her wrist and let it 
fall into the open fire. 

Then she turned to Mrs. Duncan and smiled 
brightly. “Won’t that be fine, Aunt Marcia! 
How soon shall we go?” 

And the Duchess complacently accepted the olive 
branch. 


Chapter XXII 
Camp Bonita Canon 



iRUE to her stoic determination, Bonita 


entered enthusiastically into preparations for 


moving to the camp. Day after day she 
forced herself to laugh and talk so that none of those 
about her might guess the aching misery in her 
heart. But at night she lay staring into the dark¬ 
ness until, overwhelmed by conflicting emotions, 
she would smother her tears against the pillow and 
pray for death—death and forgetfulness. 

Camp Bonita, which the soldiers of Captain Dun¬ 
can’s troop had named in honour of the girl, was one 
of the few permanent places established during the 
Geronimo campaign. Owing to risk of Indian 
raids, positive orders had been issued by General 
Crook prohibiting visits of officers’ families to any 
camp. So it had not been easy to obtain consent 
for Mrs. Duncan, Bonita, and their woman attendant 
to move to Bonita Canon. 

The drive from Fort Grant io Willcox consumed 
the first day. Here Captain Duncan met them, and 
the second evening of the journey brought them to 


CAMP BONITA CANON 145 

the entrance of the camp. To the north a road 
wound through Apache Pass. A place which held 
record of more murders by Apaches than any other 
similar area in Arizona. This pass terminated at 
Fort Bowie, twelve miles from Bonita Canon, and 
General Crook, department commander, had es¬ 
tablished his Field Headquarters at Fort Bowie. 

As the ambulance entered the canon, Bonita 
leaned from the uncurtained window to look at the 
high, rugged walls so close together as barely to 
allow space for the cavalry camp and a roadway past 
the brown-white troop tents nestling among live-oak 
trees. Near the tents a stable had been constructed 
of logs and brush, and facing toward the end of the 
canon it afforded excellent protection for the horses 
during bad weather. 

Scarcity of water in Arizona was a serious problem 
at all times, but especially so during any campaign 
against the Apaches. So the little stream, rippling 
from a permanent spring, was of strategic impor¬ 
tance; especially as Bonita Canon was accessible only 
from its entrance, for the upper end narrowed into an 
impassable crack which formed what was known as a 
“blind canon.” 

The vehicle rolled past the troop tents, where the 
soldiers paused to salute the officer. A group of 
Indian scouts were walking on the roadway. They 
stepped aside and looked curiously at the women. 
Bonita’s eyes wandered carelessly from face to face, 


146 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

but as she saw one who had loitered behind the 
other scouts, her expression became puzzled. The 
face seemed vaguely familiar. 

Pacer looked steadily into her eyes, but his coun¬ 
tenance was absolutely impassive. His fingers 
closed tightly a moment as the ambulance went by, 
leaving a cloud of dust which enveloped the Indians. 
Stolidly he followed his comrades back to the tents 
where he sat down alone while the other scouts began 
gambling with a pack of Mexican cards, much the 
worse for usage. 

Maco, Pacer’s foster brother, had been graduated 
from Carlisle and stood high in favour with the army 
officers, for whom he acted as interpreter. It was 
Maco who had picked up the orphaned Apache, 
carried him to his own wickiup, and had taught him, 
as the years went by, to run, to fight, to shoot, to 
follow a trail, and to speak the white men’s tongue. 

From Pacer’s babyhood Maco had trained him in 
feats of strength and endurance, and had exulted in 
each test that had proved the youth could keep the 
trail for seventy-two hours without water. No 
other Apache had been able to touch Pacer’s record 
of a hundred and twenty miles afoot in twenty-four 
hours over the worst mountains of Arizona. 

At night, crouched beside the campfire, Maco 
watched the lights flicker on the lithe, muscular body 
of the younger Indian, and gloated over its strength 
and beauty. For Pacer was dearer than an own son 


CAMP BONITA CANON 147 

to Maco. Looking into the clouds of smoke from 
his pipe, the older Indian saw visions of a day when 
Pacer’s name would be known with honour, not only 
among his own tribe but among the officers and the 
white people of other places. Pacer should be the 
one to bring an understanding of the white men’s 
ways to the Apaches and help lead them to the peace 
and prosperity that would at last make them broth¬ 
ers to the white men. 

Pacer, sitting alone, was recalling what Maco had 
said, that resistance by the Apaches meant annihila¬ 
tion, for the day of the white man had dawned in 
Arizona Territory, while the sun was setting forever 
on the Apaches’ trails. The young Indian, im¬ 
plicitly accepting Maco’s assertions, had felt as 
proud of his enrollment among the government 
scouts as a West Pointer of the commission signed 
by the President of the United States. And Maco 
had shared that pride. 

Assigned to Captain Duncan’s troop at Bonita 
Canon, Pacer had eagerly conformed to military 
training, and his superior intelligence won the 
approbation of the coloured troopers, none of whom 
guessed his thoughts when he sat apart from every¬ 
one else. 

Bonita, after the first puzzled glance at the scout, 
promptly forgot him as Captain Duncan pointed to a 
tiny two-room cabin back of several tall, wide- 
spreading oak trees. 


148 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


“That is our house.” Pride of ownership was in 
the officer’s voice. 

“Thank goodness!” exclaimed his wife. “No 
one can rank us out!” 

He had already explained as they drove from 
Willcox that a rancher named Erickson had built 
the house, but agreed to lease it for so long as the 
troop was in the canon. Geronimo had acquired 
the habit of utilizing the canon as a thoroughfare, 
and Mrs. Erickson declared she was tired of “picking 
up and packing” into Fort Bowie in order to save her 
own scalp and those of her children. The fact that 
the land was unsurveyed gave Erickson only a 
squatter’s right, so he dared not remain away him¬ 
self, for fear of losing his title. Hence the arrange¬ 
ment with Captain Duncan had been satisfactory to 
all concerned. 

Glad to be through with the long, wearisome drive 
over the monotonous flat, Mrs. Duncan and Bonita 
hastened to inspect the interior of their new home 
while the soldiers approached from their own part 
of the camp to unload the ambulance and a white- 
topped government wagon which had transported 
household goods. 

It did not require many minutes to explore the 
cabin. A front room, well built and with two 
windows, had a fairly good wooden floor and an 
open fireplace. This room led into a smaller one 
which had evidently been used as a kitchen. The 


CAMP BONITA CANON 149 

floor in the back room was of earth, packed down 
solidly enough to be swept. A small sliding window 
and a hole in the roof for a stovepipe, with a door 
opening from the back, completed the dwelling. 

Captain Duncan led the inspecting party to the 
wall tent pitched beside the cabin and facing the 
same way. It was the dining room. 

Back of the dining tent, but not connecting, two 
additional tents had been set up. One to be used as a, 
kitchen, the other for Aunt Jane’s bedroom. 

It was characteristic of Jane that she merely 
“toted” her bulging carpet bag into her own domicile, 
then without even a glance about her, trotted to the 
fully equipped kitchen tent and assumed command 
of the commissary department. 

Aunt Jane’s importance was paramount. Had 
not the Department Commander himself waived an 
official order in her favour? No other coloured 
woman had received such an honour. 

When Private George Washington, whose teeth 
made an ivory split in an ebony countenance and 
presented the weird impression of a two-sectioned 
head, reported to Jane as first aid in such emergencies 
as firewood and buckets of water, the old woman’s 
egotism increased to despotism. 

Washington servilely accepted her domineering, 
fortified as he was by visions of “snacks” not in¬ 
cluded in the troop mess. He had volunteered for 
the job as striker for Aunt Jane. 


150 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


But the old woman was wise from years of strikers, 
and despite George Washington’s honourable name 
and candid countenance, the mess chest, which 
contained special delicacies for the family, was re¬ 
ligiously locked each time Jane’s bent back was 
turned upon the kitchen tent. 

Washington looked in vain for the key. It was 
tucked away in Aunt Jane’s “buzzum.” 


Chapter XXIII 


“After Me, the Deluge!” 

T HE family in Bonita Canon were still busy in 
getting settled when a week of steady rain 
commenced and confined them to the cabin 
from which they scurried under dripping umbrellas 
to the dining tent and back. At intervals Captain 
Duncan, arrayed in rubber coat and boots, splashed 
down to the troop to attend to routine official duties. 
The only diversion was when the courier arrived with 
mail from Fort Bowie. 

“Thank goodness!” Bonita turned from the 
window the evening of the eighth day. “I saw a 
star! How on earth do you suppose the Noahs 
stood it for forty-eight days without throwing each 
other overboard?” 

No one attempted to answer her, and the girl, 
intent on reading the newspapers which were pasted 
on the walls, climbed on a chair, standing tiptoe. 
Captain Duncan’s six-feet-two length was telescoped 
on the floor at the opposite side of the room, while 
he perused the print above the baseboard. 

The crude cabin had been transformed into a cosy 
151 


1 52 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


home, with the front room arranged as a joint sitting 
room and bedroom. A tall screen concealed the bed 
during the day. 

Curtains of unbleached muslin edged with broad 
bands of turkey-red calico and looped back with the 
same bright material hung at the two windows. 
A lambrequin, matching the curtains, draped the 
mantel. The rough pine table, constructed by the 
troop carpenter, was hidden beneath a gay cover and 
supported a coal-oil student lamp, while cheerful 
Navajo rugs on the floor and blazing logs in the 
fireplace lent the final touches to a really attractive 
and comfortable room. 

“Why, this is not a room!” had been Bonita’s 
exclamation as she entered the house for the first 
time and turned from her discovery that the grayish- 
toned walls were neatly covered with solidly printed 
newspapers. “This is a real literary salon! The 
papers date so far back that Mr. Noah must have 
started publishing them on the Ark. Maybe we’ll 
find housekeeping articles by Mrs. Noah: ‘How I 
Fed the Animals on the Ark,’ and ‘Washday Afloat 
on the Ark!’ How do you suppose she managed 
about the mice, Aunt Marcia?” 

Dignified silence was the only reply. But from 
the hour of Bonita’s discovery, keen rivalry sprang 
up between herself and the captain in their avid 
search for fresh news items, of which they kept 
strict tally. The old cordial intercourse had been 


“AFTER ME, THE DELUGE!” 


153 


fully reestablished, as they were eager to ignore 
former friction. 

Mrs. Duncan, in confidential confabs with her 
husband, was very positive that the whole affair 
between Bonita and Stanley had been due to pro¬ 
pinquity, nothing more. While the officer was 
equally sure that there would have been no trouble 
if they had not tried to “boss” Bonita, for otherwise 
the matter would have died a natural death. 

“Here’s a new one. Uncle Jim,” announced Bonita, 
turning on the chair to look down at him where he 
was laboriously scanning an item uncomfortably near 
the floor. 

He twisted skeptically. “I have read everything 
on that side.” 

“You missed this one,” she challenged. “You’d 
never keep a joke like this to yourself. Listen! 
‘A civilian visiting a young officer in his quarters 
of one tiny room, asked how long the lieutenant 
expected to remain in such a nutshell, and received 
the prompt reply, “Until I become a colonel!””’ 

“Oh, I heard that joke long before you were 
born,” was the crushing comment. “Too old to 
even read aloud. But here’s a first-class one. Why 
is a-” 

“Oh, stop!” wailed Mrs. Duncan, waving her hands 
hopelessly. “Stop quarrelling over those old chest¬ 
nuts. It is getting on my nerves. Can’t you two find 
something else to do?” 



154 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


The officer surveyed Bonita forlornly, “We’ve 
read all the magazines and papers.” 

“Aunt Jane has a riddle book.” The girl’s eyes 
twinkled and she averted her face so that the wink 
might not be seen by Mrs. Duncan, and that innocent 
victim at once uttered the anticipated protest. 

Bonita jumped lightly to the floor. “All right. 
Aunt Marcia, we’ll have mercy!” 

The captain pulled himself upright and disconso¬ 
lately rumpled his hair as he said, “Oh, well, Bonita, 
your aunt has no sympathy with our young lives! 
Let’s get desperate and play bezique!” 

Mrs. Duncan heaved a dolorous sigh. The ancient 
jokes were bad enough, but now she was doomed 
for the rest of the evening to hear nothing but 
“common marriage, royal marriage, sequence,” or 
possibly a victorious “double bezique!” The game 
was interminable, but she had provoked the situa¬ 
tion. 

Resignedly she regained her work, which during 
the controversy had slid to the floor. 

When the last card had been played and Bonita 
triumphantly tallied another game to her credit, the 
captain rose and wound the clock, a signal that it was 
bedtime. 

“All of the stars are shining,” cried the girl as she 
peeped through the little window of her room. “To¬ 
morrow will be clear.” 

The back room had been arranged for her boudoir. 


“AFTER ME, THE DELUGE!” 


155 


Heavy canvas tightly stretched on the earth floor was 
practically covered by an enormous buffalo robe, fur 
side up. A Sibley stove, which was simply a conical 
bit of sheet iron with its open base planted firmly 
in a box of solid soil, afforded ample heat. 

The window at which Bonita stood slid sidewise 
when opened, and flaunted a gay cretonne curtain. 
A packing box, tipped on end and supplied with 
shelves, made a bureau, also draped with cretonne. 
Over this dressing table hung a mirror. 

The bed was constructed of a wire-spring mattress 
upon wooden trestles, and again the cretonne hid 
the crude supports. 

But the network of cords strung against the low 
ceiling was the most important item in the room. 
From these cords dangled many tin cans. The in¬ 
ventive genius of the girl had overcome the leaky 
roof after all efforts on the part of the troop carpenter 
had failed. Whenever a fresh leak appeared, she 
seized the broom and pushed a can, trolleywise, 
under the spot. It was a triumph of engineering 
skill and during the week of heavy rain Bonita had 
listened complacently to the dripping of the water 
in the cans. 

The family retired and all slept serenely until two 
o’clock in the morning, when a terrific crash roused 
them. 

“What—what—the devil-” ejaculated the 

captain as his wife grabbed his arm nervously. 


156 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


“Oh—oh-” gasped Bonita in the back room. 

Mrs. Duncan scrambled hastily from the bed while 
her husband lit a candle. 

The captain’s lady, in classically flowing white 
gown, candle in hand, reached the doorway between 
the two rooms and saw Bonita sitting up in bed sur¬ 
rounded by tin cans of assorted sizes, each of which 
exuded muddy water. 

“Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,” 
giggled Bonita, tumbling from the bed and seizing a 
towel. “You see,” she punctuated her words with 
attacks on her wet hair, “I forgot to empty the cans 
—and now—they have emptied themselves on me!” 

Mrs. Duncan was speechless as she surveyed the 
bed. She made a step toward it, but the girl, tossing 
back her long curls and fastening them with a hair¬ 
pin, barred the older woman’s way. 

“Go back to bed. Aunt Marcia. I’ll fix things in 
a jiffy. You’ll have another attack of bronchitis if 
you stand there in the cold.” 

The one thing Mrs. Duncan feared was bronchitis, 
and the mere mention of it was enough to make her 
disappear. While she was explaining the situation 
to the captain, interrupted by his chuckles, Bonita 
industriously collected the cans and piled them in 
the corner of her room, where they formed an im¬ 
posing heap. 

“I have discovered the pyramids of Arizona!” 
she declaimed dramatically as she topped the peak 


“AFTER ME, THE DELUGE!” 


157 


with a can decorated flamboyantly—a huge red 
tomato and the word, “Excelsior!” 

“All this shanty needs now is a goat!” Captain 
Duncan called from the front room. 

“No, it doesn’t!” she retorted. “We have one 
already. I’m the goat!” 

Further repartee was prevented by tapping at the 
little window, and Aunt Jane’s voice spoke anxiously. 

“Whut’s de mattah, honey?” 

Bonita replied by sliding back the window. Jane’s 
black face, framed in white nightcap, frilled and 
fluted, appeared in the opening. Her eyes rolled like 
white marbles as she saw the havoc, and her hands 
were raised in consternation. 

“You’se de commotionest chile I eber seen!” she 
affirmed solemnly. “Fo’ de Ian’s sakes, ain’t hit 
cur’ous dat folkses dat knows so much doan’ know 
nuflSn? Whut yo’ want if yo’ gwineter string up 
cans, is wiah, chile, wiah!” 

Jane disappeared in the darkness, and Bonita, 
standing at the window, called gaily, “Thank good¬ 
ness! The sky is clear at last and there is a moon, 
too!” 

Closing the window she turned and faced the pile 
of cans. “Now I understand it at last. ‘After me, 
the deluge.’” 


Chapter XXIV 
An Unexpected Uprising 


EWS by courier reached the camp in Bonita 



Canon, telling the many angles of the cam- 


A* ^ paign work. In spite of the energy of the 
troops, the Apaches managed to elude capture. 
Messages that Captain Wirt Davis, of the Fourth 
Cavalry, with his troop and a hundred Indian scouts 
had surprised the Apache camp near Nacori was 
followed later by word that Lieutenant Hay, of the 
Fourth, with seventy-eight scouts, had also dis¬ 
covered and attacked them, but the Indians had 
fled. Two boys and a woman had been killed. None 
captured alive. 

Then came a letter from Roy, hastily scribbled, to 
let them know that he was all right, and that Craw¬ 
ford's scouts, led by Chatto, had had an encounter 
with Chihuahua and captured fifteen women. But 
so far the results of the hard work were negligi¬ 


ble. 


Back and forth through the little canon reached 
the threads of the great, invisible web, of which no 
one was more unconscious than the girl who sat on 


158 



AN UNEXPECTED UPRISING 159 


the low step of the door, intent upon the book in 
her hand. 

A shadow fell across the pages and she looked up 
quickly. Pacer stood before her, his sombre eyes 
fixed on her face as he dropped a string of buttons 
upon the open book and vanished. Bonita examined 
the gift and cried out in surprise at the artistic work¬ 
manship that had converted silver quarter-dollar 
pieces into exquisitely fashioned buttons. For the 
milling on the edges and the lettering that showed 
on the under sides told of the painstaking work that 
had transformed the coins. 

Carefully polished and threaded upon a bit of 
black velvet, Bonita wore the buttons around her 
throat, and Pacer, passing her, saw them. A smile 
lit his dark eyes as he went his way. 

And at intervals after that day other gifts were 
brought. Sometimes they were laid on the door 
step—a woven chain of horsehair—a beaded buckskin 
pouch—but the scout never approached the girl 
unless she was near the cabin door, as though to 
assure her that he meant no harm. 

Mrs. Duncan had listened to the incident, and 
examined the later gifts with a smile of amused 
tolerance, but when she discovered Pacer standing 
with rapt face beside the girl’s window, while he 
sawed on an Apache fiddle, the Duchess decided that 
she would be justified in having her husband put an 
end to the matter. 


160 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


“It worries me,” she said. “Can’t you have that 
particular scout transferred?” 

“Yes, it can be easily arranged. I am not in 
harmony with Crook’s idea of having so many scouts 
loafing around camps, where they have nothing to 
do but hatch up mischief together. A number of 
the soldiers complain that their cartridges are being 
stolen. We’re keeping it quiet and watching the 
scouts. They probably are storing up ammunition 
in caches for the hostiles.” 

He rose and picked up his hat. “I’ll tell Faulkner 
to keep a close watch on Pacer until I get him trans¬ 
ferred. I wonder,” the captain looked thoughtfully 
at his wife, “whether it is wise for you and Bonita to 
remain here. Maybe you had better go back to 
Grant.” 

“That is absurd, Jim,” remonstrated Mrs. Dun¬ 
can. “There is no danger in camp, I just don’t like 
the familiar actions of that scout, hanging about the 
house as he does. None of the other Indians ever 
come up here or pay any attention to us. If he is 
transferred there will be nothing else to worry over.” 

That night Captain Duncan wrote a letter ad¬ 
dressed to the Department Commander at Fort 
Bowie, and the following week, when a detachment of 
Indian scouts passed through Bonita Canon on their 
way to Mexico, Pacer went with them and another 
Indian remained in his place. 

Mrs. Duncan heard the news with a sigh of relief 


AN UNEXPECTED UPRISING 161 

and turned her attention to household problems, the 
greatest of which were the bread and the monthly 
commissary list. 

“Dem commissary yeast cakes ain’t no count a- 
tall. Mis’ Duncan,” complained Jane dolorously, 
perched on the edge of a chair, while Mrs. Duncan, 
pencil in hand, checked off the articles required in 
the kitchen. “Ah done mek up two batches ob 
braid dis week an’ dey’s both sad.” 

“Why don’t you get some yeast from Mrs, Prue?” 
called Bonita from the back room. “Her bread is 
simply delicious!” 

The girl came through the doorway, dressed for 
her daily ride, and Jane’s eyes lit hopefully. 

“Miss Bonita, chile, cain’t yo’ fotch a starter ob 
yeast from her whilst youse ridin’, so’s Ah kin set 
braid to-night?” 

“I’ll go there the first thing and bring it right 
back. I can finish my ride afterward. Tell Finne¬ 
gan to saddle the horses.” 

Jane beamed. “Ah doan’ cayah if de whole 
United States Awmy is habin’ trouble with braid, so 
long’s Ah kin git a starter dat’s fit to use.” 

And so Bonita went on her mission. 

As there was nothing for her to do except ride 
horseback, Captain Duncan had detailed one of the 
soldiers, who rejoiced in the name of Michael Finne¬ 
gan despite his pure African blood, to act as her body¬ 
guard. Should danger arise, the Duncans knew that 


162 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

Finnegan would use his last bullet to protect the girl 
entrusted to his care. 

Making the acquaintance of the ranchers and 
their families who lived within a radius of ten miles 
furnished an interest to these rides, and Finnegan’s 
happy-go-lucky attitude did not prevent him from 
scrutinizing every rock and bit of brush. The sun¬ 
light gleamed on the belt of brightly shining car¬ 
tridges buckled about his waist and supporting a 
pistol holster. 

Each night Finnegan polished and greased these 
cartridges and saw that the pistol was guiltless of 
dust or rust. He was not “bucking for orderly”; 
the reason was that he knew at any moment during 
those rides the girl’s life might depend on him. And 
Michael Finnegan wanted to be ready for action. 

He had heard the Arizona cowboy truism, “You 
never know an Apache is around you till he’s killed 
you.” Silently they came, wrote their story in 
blood, and as silently went on their way. 

So Finnegan scanned each bit of shrubbery until 
Prue’s ranch had been reached safely, and Bonita, 
without dismounting, explained the dilemma in the 
camp to Mrs. Prue. 

Flattered and flustrated at the compliment to her 
bread, the good soul hastened to put the yeast into a 
small lard pail, which she polished with her apron and 
handed to the soldier. 

“The cover’s on tight,” said the rancher’s wife. 


AN UNEXPECTED UPRISING 163 

“Yessum, thanky mum,” answered Finnegan 
perfunctorily, watching the girl, who was already on 
the way home. 

Mindful of strict orders never to allow her to get 
more than fifty feet ahead of him, the Negro spurred 
his horse and dashed after her. But Don, now in a 
smart gallop, accepted this as a challenge to race. 
Knowing that the road was level and camp only 
a short distance away, Bonita made no attempt to 
check her horse. 

A sharp report sounded back of her. Don leaped 
in fright. The girl caught her breath. Apaches! 
How close were they? 

She glanced over her shoulder. Finnegan’s horse 
dashed nearer. The Negro’s face was covered with a 
thick gray substance that almost obliterated eyes 
and features. He was leaning low over the pommel 
of his saddle with one hand lifted toward his face. 
Without a sound except the pounding of the horses’ 
hoofs upon the hard road Finnegan reached her and 
flashed past. 

And Bonita, kicking and whipping Don into 
terrific speed, followed; but the other horse kept the 
lead into the mouth of the canon. Through the 
camp dashed Finnegan’s maddened horse. Troop¬ 
ers popped out of their tents and stood gaping at the 
unprecedented spectacle of Finnegan racing ahead of 
Miss Bonita. 

Roused by the clattering hoofs, the Duncans and 


164 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


Aunt Jane ran to the front of the cabin and stared in 
amazement as Finnegan’s horse stopped in front of 
them. 

Bonita, with horror-stricken face, followed. The 
soldier was rubbing his eyes with his coat sleeve. 
The sleeve, too, was gray. Gray and wet! Brains! 

“Oh, Finnegan! Are you dying?” she cried, 
aghast, expecting to see him fall to the ground. 

The Negro turned his gray-streaked face. Grin¬ 
ning almost from ear to ear he held out the empty 
lard pail. 

“Dat yah east done got ’cited, Miss Bonita, an’ de 
string must of busted. De lid popped off an’ scairt 
mah hawse so’s Ah cou’dn’t stop him. An’ dat east 
wuz in mah eyes, so’s Ah didn’t see when Ah passed 
yo’. An’ Ah hopes yo’ll ’scuse me dis time, Cap’n, 
caze Ah thought Miss Bonita’s done got inter camp 
ahaid ob me, an’ dat’s how come Ah spu’d so libely!” 

“Good gracious!” gasped the girl, “I thought the 
Apaches had blown out your brains.” Laughter 
choked her, and the Duncans joined in her mirth, 
while Finnegan grinned sheepishly at them all and 
continued mopping his face with a bandana. 

Aunt Jane did not laugh. Her face was grim. 

“Brains!” she snorted contemptuously. “Huh! 
Howcome yo’ figger Finnegan’s got any brains? He 
cou’d hab a gatlin’ gun p’inted ’terectly at his haid 
an’ if dat gun shoot his haid plumb off’n dat nigger’s 
shou’ders, yo’ ail’d fin’ his haid as empty as a egg- 


AN UNEXPECTED UPRISING 165 

shell aftah a weasel done suck hit clean! Brains! 
Huh! His haid’s as empty as dis yeah pail!” 

She swung the lard pail upside down to prove its 
emptiness, and marched huffily back to the kitchen 
tent. 

Bonita dismounted, and telling Finnegan to wait, 
hurried to the kitchen where Jane was muttering 
like a volcano prior to eruption. 

“I’ll go back myself and get more yeast,” the girl 
spoke. “You see it really was my fault because I 
started ahead too soon. I know that Mrs. Prue 
won’t mind giving us more yeast.” 

“Doan’ yo’ let dat fool Finnegan go long, Miss 
Bonita, caze he ain’t fitten to be near any libe yeast.” 

Two hours later Jane lifted a white cloth from a 
pan on the back of the stove and smiled at the bubbly 
concoction. Peace descended upon the camp. But 
the unexpected uprising in Bonita Canon was not 
reported by Captain Duncan to the Department 
Commander. 


Chapter XXV 
Geronimo’s Stronghold 

W HILE the days passed uneventfully in 
Camp Bonita, Roy Duncan, with the rest of 
Crawford’s command, doggedly, wearily, 
followed Geronimo’s elusive trail across the Haros 
River and headed for the well-named Espinosa del 
Diablo where the broken country rose to peaks like 
jagged vertebrae. 

The moccasins, which they had all adopted be¬ 
cause they could travel more silently in them than 
in boots, afforded little protection to their feet as 
they trod the knife-edged rocks. Piercing cold 
winter winds, augmented by the altitude and with 
only one blanket for each man, made the nights far 
from restful. But the hostiles, believing themselves 
immune from pursuit, had left a distinct trail, and 
heartened by this, Crawford pressed onward. 

Sunset on the ninth of January marked the end of 
an unusually hard day’s march. Noche, the ser¬ 
geant-major, was some miles ahead, following his 
regular method of scanning the advance trail, so 
that the Apaches might not take warning from the 
too open approach of the command. 

166 


GERONIMO’S STRONGHOLD 167 

Dutchy, who had accompanied Noche, appeared 
suddenly between near-by rocks and hastened to the 
officers. The command halted. Every man knew 
that the scout bore important news. 

“Geronimo,” he spoke as he reached the waiting 
officers. 

He held up his hand and carefully checked off his 
fingers, and they all understood that only twelve 
miles away the hostiles were encamped. Laconi¬ 
cally Dutchy gave Noche’s message. Geronimo had 
camped on a high ridge which could only be reached 
under greatest difficulties. It was practically im¬ 
pregnable. 

Crawford consulted with his officers. 

“It means another night march/’ he said. “It 
will be hard, for we need rest, but we should come 
up to them at daybreak.” 

The wisdom of a method learned from the Apaches 
themselves was apparent, and all were eager to push 
on as rapidly as possible. 

“I wish we could make coffee,” the commander 
continued, “but a fire is out of the question now.” 

So rations of raw bacon and hard bread were 
issued to them all during a short rest of twenty 
minutes. Then the march was resumed, more 
cautiously and more hopefully. 

There was no moon, and heavy black clouds 
obscured even the stars as the command followed its 
leader over a trail that only an Apache could have 


168 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


found under similar conditions. Deep canons 
yawned beside them, feet slid on slanting slate 
rocks, at times a break in the trail halted them and 
Noche would retrace his steps, followed by the worn- 
out command. 

Crawford, almost too exhausted to speak, kept 
behind Noche, using a rifle as a cane, and often 
pausing to lean wearily upon it as he gathered 
strength for further efforts. Though his feet dragged 
heavily, he kept his place behind the Apache guide. 

Single file they travelled, every muscle strained 
to the breaking point. Marion Maus, second in 
command, marched back of his captain, while Roy 
and Lieutenant Shipp followed them closely. Be¬ 
hind the white officers trailed the companies of 
scouts, lithe and stealthy as cougars. Back and 
forth, zigzagging where the incline was too steep to 
follow directly, thus they had to cover eighteen miles 
of the worst country in Mexico, though the camp of 
the hostiles had been only twelve miles distant when 
discovered. 

Silently the Apaches of Crawford’s command 
slipped through the dry grass and crept between 
boulders in order to form an impassable cordon 
through which the renegades would be unable to 
escape. 

Dawn was just breaking. Nothing stirred in the 
camp of Geronimo. The surprise was complete. 
Those who awaited the signals breathed a little more 


GERONIMO’S STRONGHOLD 


169 


hurriedly. Every nerve, every muscle was taut. 
The end of their work was at hand. The Geronimo 
campaign would be finished in a few short minutes! 
Eagerly they awaited the signal. 

The geese of Rome will go down in history of all 
ages, and so should a few scrawny, tiny gray burros 
in Geronimo’s camp. Out of the silence rose stentor¬ 
ian brays that aroused the hostile Apaches. 

Crack! 

Through the darkness flashed a shot from Geroni¬ 
mo’s stronghold. A volley answered. 

But the mischief was done. Shadowy figures 
slipped into deeper shadows between obstructing 
boulders and vanished like wraiths. 

Pursuit was fruitless. Tired, discouraged, thwarted 
at the very moment of success, the command took 
possession of Geronimo’s camp. But one consolation 
was theirs. The hostiles had abandoned all their 
food supplies, ammunition, and the pony herd; and 
seeing this, the officers and scouts knew that Geronimo 
and his band were in sore straits. 

The dully smouldering fire left by the Indians 
blazed warmly as fresh logs were tossed upon it. 
There was no danger from unarmed foes. So while 
part of the weary command rested, the others pre¬ 
pared meat left by the fleeing renegades, and the 
aroma of boiling coffee drifted fragrantly as the 
men drew about the fire. 

Crawford, lying in the comforting warmth, awaited 


170 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

the messenger whom he knew Geronimo would send, 
according to Apache custom. Though they con¬ 
fidently expected the envoy, the officers concealed 
their elation when the Indian did appear to say that 
Geronimo and Natchez wished to talk. 

For a talk meant capitulation—the first step to a 
surrender. Though powerless now, without arms, 
food, or ponies, Geronimo and Natchez must pre¬ 
serve a semblance of dignity and authority. As 
usual, a squaw bore the message. 

Through the messenger a meeting was arranged to 
take place the next day, and then, bearing the food 
which she had begged, the Indian woman hastened 
back to the hiding place of Geronimo, leaving the 
officers and scouts to enjoy their hard-earned rest. 

The morning was depressing. Clouds hovered 
low and a gray veil of heavy fog wrapped the peaks 
of the mountains. Worn by weeks of constant ex¬ 
haustion and feeling the reaction from the high 
tension of the last twenty-four hours, even the 
Apache scouts relaxed their vigilance and slept. 

But Noche himself was keenly alert. He stationed 
sentinels on points of vantage. Aware of the treach¬ 
ery of Geronimo, Noche took no chances of a sur¬ 
prise. 

A light wind bore unmistakable sounds of tramping 
feet. Noche listened, then gave warning. In an¬ 
other instant the entire band of Crawford’s scouts 
were up and uttering shrill calls. 


GERONIMO’S STRONGHOLD 171 

The officers stood in a group peering at the indis¬ 
tinct figures of a body of men who were nearing the 
camp. 

“It is probably Captain Wirt Davis and his scouts, 
and they have cut our trail,” Crawford suggested 
to Maus who was beside him. 

So with no thought of danger the officers ascended 
rocks which would give them clearer view of ap¬ 
proaching comrades. 

A fusillade of shots astounded them. Three 
scouts fell wounded. The others hunted cover and 
at once fired in retaliation. 

“Stop firing!” shouted Crawford. 

Maus repeated the order. Both officers were now 
sure that the Apache scouts of Captain Davis’s 
command, following hot on Geronimo’s trail, had 
mistaken the Crawford scouts for the hostile Indians. 

Silence followed Crawford’s order. 

Then out of comparative safety a party of thir¬ 
teen Mexican soldiers separated from the main com¬ 
mand and drew nearer Crawford’s position. 

“Tell them who we are.” Crawford turned to 
Maus, for the older officer, unfamiliar with Spanish 
language, relied upon the lieutenant in the absence 
of Tom Horn, the interpreter. Horn and Doctor 
Davis, ill and worn out, had been unable to keep 
up with the rest of the command during the last few 
strenuous hours of the march to Geronimo’s camp, 
and had been left behind to follow more slowly. 


172 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


Lieutenant Maus, closely followed by Crawford, 
moved forward until they faced Major Corredor, 
the Mexican commander. Powerful in build, he 
stood over six feet tall, and back of him was the 
boyish Lieutenant Juan de La Cruz. The main 
body of the Mexican force remained some distance 
away, but the detachment of thirteen grouped to¬ 
gether not far from their officers. 

Here and there the red head-band and black hair 
of Crawford’s scouts lifted cautiously above pro¬ 
tecting boulders. They were ready for action, but 
obeyed the command and withheld their fire. 

“We are American soldiers,” Maus explained in 
fluent Spanish, addressing the Mexican major. 
“Geronimo has abandoned his camp. We have all 
his supplies and ammunition. He has agreed to talk 
with us to-day.” 

“Have you made it clear?” Crawford asked 
anxiously as the young officer ceased speaking. 

“Perfectly, sir.” 

The sharp snap of breechblocks sounded omi¬ 
nously. Crawford’s scouts had detected another party 
of Mexicans creeping through a ravine that would 
lead to a position overlooking the American camp. 

Crawford grasped the situation at once. 

“Don’t let them shoot! For God’s sake, don’t 
let them shoot!” he called sharply. 

Major Corredor’s voice blended with Crawford’s; 
“No tires! No tires!” 


GERONIMO’S STRONGHOLD 173 

“Don’t fire!” shouted Maus again and again in 
both languages. 

But one shot crashed! 

It reverberated through the canons, it was caught 
by the bending peaks, then its echoes mingled with 
other volleys that poured from the guns of Craw¬ 
ford’s command in reply to a fusillade from the 
Mexican soldiers. 

The rifle of Major Corredor jerked from his hands 
as though he had flung it away. For an instant he 
stood erect, staring with startled eyes. Then he fell 
heavily to the ground. A bullet had found his heart. 

As Corredor fell, Lieutenant de La Cruz turned to 
run for shelter. Thirteen bullets from carefully 
aimed Apache rifles flew on their mission of death. 
He crumpled on the earth and did not move again. 

Back of a young tree a small bunch of Mexicans 
sought safety; but the hail of bullets from the now 
infuriated Apache scouts riddled the sapling and not 
one of the Mexicans escaped alive. 

The firing ceased, and the silence that followed was 
even more oppressive that the noise had been. Out 
in the open were men who lay motionless. The air 
waves vibrated tremulously, stirred by the quick 
breathing of those who crouched behind sheltering 
rocks. 

Maus looked about for Crawford. He was no¬ 
where in sight. 

Filled with foreboding, the young officer went in 


174 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

search; and there, behind a group of boulders, he 
found his commander and friend. 

A red handkerchief had already been spread upon 
Crawford’s face. It was a scout’s handkerchief—the 
sign of a loyal Indian. 

With arms folded and face stolid in spite of his 
grief, Dutchy, the scout, stood on guard beside his 
fallen commander. 

Lieutenant Maus stooped and gently lifted the 
handkerchief from Captain Crawford’s still face. 
A hole in the head told where the ball of a rifle had 
entered. 

Believing that Crawford was dead, Maus, heart¬ 
sick and helpless, gently laid the handkerchief over 
the pale face, and with a gesture of despair, rose to 
his feet, forgetful of all else but the loved friend. 

But fresh volleys roused him to his responsibility, 
and with one glance backward at the motionless 
form, Lieutenant Maus turned to assume the com¬ 
mand that had fallen upon him with the death of 
Captain Crawford. Too well the young officer 
realized his position, and the possibility of inter¬ 
national complications for what had already oc¬ 
curred, besides future difficulties unless he could pre¬ 
vent further fighting between the Mexican soldiers 
and the Apache scouts. 

He knew that the Mexicans outnumbered his own 
command two to one, and that they were armed with 
.44 calibre rifles, while his own men had practically 


GERONIMO’S STRONGHOLD 175 

used up their ammunition in the fight with Geronimo, 
followed by that with the Mexicans. 

The situation was acute. The Mexicans had lost 
no time in strongly entrenching themselves in ad¬ 
vantageous positions commanding the American 
camp. Back of the American officers and their 
Apache scouts watched Geronimo and the hostile 
Indians. 

Would the scouts remain loyal? Or would the;y 
turn against the three American officers, slay them, 
and then unite forces with Geronimo’s band? No 
one could tell. 

While the young officer was trying to adjust his 
plans and solve some of the problems thrust so 
suddenly upon him, Doctor Davis limped painfully 
into the camp and was told of Crawford’s death. 
Together the doctor and Lieutenant Maus went to 
the side of the officer, and Doctor Davis lifted the 
red handkerchief to study the wound. 

An exclamation of surprise startled Maus. 

“My God!” cried Davis, incredulously, “he is 
still alive!” 

“Is there any hope?” asked Maus eagerly, as he 
knelt beside his unconscious friend. 

“None. The end may come at any minute. 
It seems incredible that he has lived so long with 
such a wound.” 

There was nothing to do but await the end. Sadly 
the officers sat through the night, but when dawn 


176 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

crept over the mountains, Crawford was still breath¬ 
ing. 

Clinging to the last straw of hope, Maus told the 
doctor of his determination to try to get his loved 
comrade and friend across the border. 

Doctor Davis shook his head. “The end may 
come soon. It is a miracle that he still lives!” 

“As long as there is breath in his body”—Maus 
spoke doggedly—“I shall not give up trying to get 
him there. “And even if he should—die”—the 
young officer paused and his voice trembled—“I 
shall carry him back to his own country. He has 
given his life for it—and it owes him a grave!” 


Chapter XXVI 
The Storm 

C APTAIN DUNCAN settled in his easy chaii 
with his pipe and a magazine. As he cut 
the pages his wife near the table worked at 
her usual bit of sewing. Mrs. Duncan had been 
reared in the days when idle hands were taboo, and 
the early training still governed her spare mo¬ 
ments. 

Bonita came from her room and stood beside the 
table, absently fingering a book. Outside raged the 
worst storm of the season. The wind howled and 
sleet rattled against the windows, like the tapping 
of skeleton fingers. It was not a local storm, for 
word had been brought by couriers that it had swept 
over Mexico, too. 

“We are lucky that the house is so comfortable,” 
observed Mrs. Duncan complacently. 

“Yes, but it’s pretty hard lines on those not under 
shelter,” replied the officer. “Glad my men and 
horses are so well protected.” 

Mrs. Duncan bent her head lower as she threaded 
a needle. It took her much longer than usual to 
177 


178 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


adjust the thread. Her husband glanced at her, 
then went on cutting the unopened pages. 

Bonita turned soberly and sat down in a rocker 
before the fire. Her eyes gazed into the red-and- 
gold flames and her hands were clasped tensely in 
her lap. Like winged things her thoughts flew 
through the darkness, escaping the barriers that she 
had believed so strong. Somewhere the storm was 
beating down on Jerry Stanley. All the mother 
instinct that is a part of every woman’s love for 
a man forgave him, but hurt pride and the knowl¬ 
edge of his deception beat back the tender mood. 
Her hands tightened and her lips formed into a firm, 
straight line. She turned toward Mrs. Duncan. 

“Let me hem some of those napkins, Aunt Marcia. 
I cannot find anything else to do.” 

For some time silence reigned in the room, and the 
women stitched while Captain Duncan at intervals 
read aloud from his magazine. But the forced in¬ 
terest was apparent, and it was a relief to them all 
when the officer rose and said, “Time to wind the 
clock.” 

“It has been a tiresome day,” his wife spoke as she 
folded her sewing. “I am glad it is over.” 

Above the confusion of the storm sounded gallop¬ 
ing hoofs. The family started and listened. Nearer 
and nearer came the clatter, past the stables—past 
the troop tents—to the cabin door. Then silence. 

Those in the house waited. There was no knock. 


THE STORM 


179 


“I’ll find out which of the men has been sneaking 
off without permission,” snorted the captain wrath- 
fully, jerking open the door and peering into the 
storm. 

Only darkness met his eyes. He closed the door 
to keep out the beating rain. 

“But wouldn’t a troop horse stop at the stable if it 
had broken away from its rider?” questioned Bonita. 

He nodded assent, then picked up a glassed lan¬ 
tern and lit it. “I’m going to the troop and have a 
check roll-call. When I find out which man is 
absent, I’ll put him through a course of sprouts that 
he won’t forget in a hurry. Probably some of these 
ranchers are selling liquor on the sly.” 

His words were interrupted by the shrill whinny 
of a horse. “It’s in front of the house!” Duncan 
handed the lamp to the girl. “Stand back of the 
door, Bonita, but if there is any trouble don’t expose 
yourself. If the man is drunk, he may be ugly.” 

Pistol in hand he opened the door. The rays from 
the lantern flashed on a riderless horse. The officer 
hastened outside. 

“Bonita!” he called sharply. 

She ran out to him, carrying the lantern. He was 
leaning over a figure huddled on the ground. 

“Sergeant!” 

Lights appeared in the troop tents and moving 
shadows told that his voice had roused the men. 
They came double-quick, but before any of them 


180 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


had reached the cabin. Captain Duncan, aided by 
the girl, had carried the unconscious man into the 
house and laid him on the couch. 

Only the dull glow of the fire and the flickering 
light from the lantern swung on Bonita’s arm re¬ 
lieved the gloom, for the wind had blown out the 
flame of the lamp on the table. 

A knock sounded on the closed door and they heard 
Sergeant Faulkner’s voice. The officer bade him 
enter, and the old soldier, bareheaded and dripping 
from the rain, stood inside. 

“Take care of the horse,” was the brief order, 
“and tell Finnegan to wait in the kitchen tent. The 
rest of the men may return to camp.” 

Faulkner disappeared. Mrs. Duncan had re¬ 
lighted the lamp, and, trained to resourcefulness, 
hastened to the medicine chest which was equipped 
for emergencies in the absence of any doctor. 

Captain Duncan began unfastening the yellow 
oilskin slicker, while Bonita was pulling at the rain- 
soaked gauntlets. 

“Roy!” The girl’s startled cry reached the others, 
and Mrs. Duncan ran to the couch and dropped on 
her knees beside her son. 

The girl stepped away and the mother slipped her 
arms under his shoulders; drawing him against her 
breast she looked into his face. Her lips were white. 
Bonita saw Roy’s mother turn an agonized face 
toward the father, but her lips did not move. 


THE STORM 


181 


“ It’s just a collapse, Mother. Don’t worry.” Dun¬ 
can’s voice was unsteady as he reassured his wife, 
whose face was pressed tightly against Roy’s cheek, 
while her stifled sob brought tears to Bonita’s eyes. 

The girl moved nearer, longing to help in some way 
yet feeling that the father and the mother had for¬ 
gotten everything but their son. 

Roy opened his eyes and tried to rise, but fell back 
as his father’s hand pressed his shoulder. 

“Lie still. Son.” The voice was very tender, and 
the captain’s relief showed in his face. “You’ll 
be all right in a few minutes.” Turning he spoke: 
“Get some brandy, Bonita.” 

Glad to be of use, she hurried to the medicine chest 
and measured the stimulant into a glass, which she 
carried to Roy’s mother. For a few seconds after 
Roy had drained it he rested with closed eyes, then 
he looked up at them. 

“Dad,” he said brokenly. “Crawford’s dead!” 

The news stupefied them. Silently they awaited 
his words. 

“I’m taking the news to General Crook. Had a 
man from Lang’s ranch, but he played out two hours 
ago.” 

He struggled up and tried to stand on his feet, 
but slumped down again on the couch. 

“I must go on,” he spoke as though to himself. 

“You can’t!” his mother answered decidedly. 
“You must stay here to-night. You are in no condi- 


182 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


tion to travel. Your father will give the report to 
the First Sergeant. He will carry it all right.” 

Roy shook his head. “That won’t do, Mother. 
I promised Lieutenant Maus that I would deliver the 
message myself to General Crook. He trusted me 
with it.” 

“Was it Geronimo or the scouts?” asked Duncan. 

“Neither.” The young officer looked at his 
father. “It was Mexican soldiers. It is liable to 
make trouble down there for us all.” 

“You are right,” Duncan nodded gravely. “This 
is serious business. No one else can carry your 
message.” 

“Well, if you will go on,” his mother spoke with 
aggrieved resignation, “at least you must take time 
to change to dry clothing and have some hot food.” 

“I’ll tell Jane.” Bonita was on her feet, eager to 
do something. 

Taking the captain’s rubber coat from its peg, she 
slipped it around her shoulders and drew the cape of 
it over her head as she ran out. Mrs. Duncan had 
already opened her husband’s trunk, and after select¬ 
ing necessary articles, she went into the back room, 
followed by her son. 

When Bonita returned Captain Duncan and his 
wife, side by side on the couch, were talking in 
subdued tones, though they were not conscious that 
they had lowered their voices, as one does in a house 
of the dead. 


THE STORM 


183 


The girl went softly back to her chair before the 
fire and the memory of the dinner came back to her. 
Again she heard the toast, “Here’s to the ones who 
are gone, and here’s to the next one to go!” Who 
would be next? 

In the leaping flames she saw a slender figure in 
cavalry uniform lying motionless on the ground 
while the storm beat down furiously. “ If you should 
call me, I would hear you and come, even though I 
were dead.” 

Unable to endure her thoughts, she rose quickly. 
The burning log broke. The fire picture vanished. 
With misty eyes she looked up at Roy, who stood in 
the doorway. 

Then Jane bustled in with a covered tray and 
arranged steaming food upon the table. 


Chapter XXYII 
In Days of Peace 

R OY put down the empty coffee cup and, rising, 
went over to the fireplace where he stood 
^ looking silently into the flames. 

Captain Duncan held out a cigar, but the young 
man shook his head and the captain left his own 
stogie unlighted. No one spoke for several minutes. 
Their thoughts were on the tale they had just heard 
of how Captain Crawford had been shot. 

Mrs. Duncan pushed a chair beside her own, and 
her son, in answer to a gesture, sat down. His 
mother laid her hand on his and let it rest there. 
The simple act of tenderness meant much, coming 
from Mrs. Duncan, and all of them knew how deeply 
her emotions had been stirred that evening. 

From where the young officer sat he could see 
Bonita’s bent head and the firelight playing on her 
brown curls and pale cheek. 

Seated around the fireplace, they waited for Roy to 
continue his narration. 

“ After Crawford was shot,” he went on slowly, 
“Maus took command, and the fighting kept up for 
184 


IN DAYS OF PEACE 


185 


two more hours before we drove the Mexicans away. 
It was all we could do, for they had every advantage, 
with plenty of arms and munitions, while we were 
without rations, short of ammunition, and in the 
heart of an unfriendly population in a foreign coun¬ 
try. Our safety depended on the loyalty of our 
scouts, and just a short distance away Geronimo’s 
band—kin to our scouts—watched and waited. Our 
pack train was somewhere back of us, unprotected.” 

Roy struck his clenched fist on the arm of his chair 
and his eyes blazed as he said vehemently, “Dad! 
I don’t know what darned skunk was responsible, but 
we found out before we left Faison and the pack 
train that the ammunition they had didn’t fit their 
guns. The packers had all been armed with Sharps’ 
carbines—.50-calibre guns—and someone has issued 
.45-calibre ammunition! Do you all get that?” 
He flung out his hands and looked from one startled 
face to the other as he repeated emphatically, 
“Fifty-calibre guns with forty-five ammunition down 
in the heart of Mexico!” 

The older man nodded slowly as he looked into the 
young officer’s angry eyes. “When you have been 
in the service as long as I have been,” he said heavily, 
“you’ll find other things as bad. Politics and 
government pigeonholes have been the tomb of 
many a brave soldier’s conscientious career. The 
army is comprised of heroes while there is any fight¬ 
ing to be done, but in times of peace the very same 


186 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


men are treated as criminals who have forfeited all 
human or civil rights! That is the acid test of a 
man’s patriotism.” 

“But men like Crawford stand it,” Roy added 
quickly. 

“And so will you, my son,” the father answered. 

“How soon did Doctor Davis reach him?” asked 
Mrs. Duncan. 

“Not until late that afternoon. Crawford was 
still breathing, but unconscious, and Davis expected 
his death at any moment. There was nothing that 
could be done for him. After Davis had cared for 
our own wounded, Maus had him look after the 
wounded Mexicans. We gave their dead to them 
and turned over some of the captured Indian ponies 
to carry their dead and wounded. They seemed to 
feel pretty badly over the affair and claimed that it 
was all due to a mistake. So we did not anticipate 
any further trouble with them and turned our at¬ 
tention to our own command. 

“We stayed in the Geronimo camp site until morn¬ 
ing. Crawford was still living and Maus and Davis 
decided to get him back to the border if possible. 
But with such a wound as his, it was miraculous 
that he had lived even an hour. 

“Every minute counted; and we worked like 
beavers, making a travois of canes cut from the 
willows in the river bed and binding them with strips 
of canvas. While we were making the litter some 


IN DAYS OF PEACE 


187 


Mexicans asked Mails to talk with their party. 
No one suspected treachery when he went with 
them. 

“The storm had begun, and the rain was falling. 
They asked Maus to take shelter with them under 
an overhanging ledge, which was out of our sight. 
Well, he found fifty armed Mexicans awaiting him 
there. They demanded his official papers, his 
commission as an officer, called him a marauder who 
had no right in their country, and heaped insults 
on him and his uniform. You see, sir, Major 
Corredor and Lieutenant Juan de La Cruz had been 
killed. If they had lived there would have been no 
second attack; but their lack of a responsible leader 
left us to contend with a bunch of ignorant Mexicans 
mixed in with a lot of cut-throats/’ 

“But he told them about the understanding be¬ 
tween our country and theirs?” questioned the cap¬ 
tain, who had risen to his feet. 

“Yes; you know Maus speaks Spanish fluently. 
There was no chance of misunderstanding. No 
telling what the outcome would have been if our 
scouts had not started to yell and raise the devil. 
And then, what do you think? Old Geronimo’s 
bunch signalled us that they would pitch in and help 
us lick the Mexicans to a finish!” 

“Humph!” grunted Duncan. “That would have 
raised a fine mess!” 

“Well, the Mexicans decided to turn Maus loose 


188 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


after that demonstration. So we started early the 
next morning, with Crawford on the travois, which 
we took turns in carrying. The trail was terrible 
with the rain and soft mud, and we barely made 
three miles the first day. Crawford still lived when 
we camped that night. 

“And then a squaw came from Geronimo, asking 
Maus to come unarmed into their camp, to talk. He 
went. Only two Apaches were there, but they 
promised that the next day Geronimo, Natchez, 
Nana, and Chihuahua would meet him. 

“Again he went, unarmed, and found the four 
chiefs and fourteen bucks fully armed, in direct 
violation of their agreement. Every Apache in 
the circle that squatted about Maus held his 
rifle upright, ready for trouble. But they finally 
agreed solemnly that they would meet General Crook 
near San Bernardino in two moons to talk about 
final surrender.” 

“It was a severe test for a young officer like 
Lieutenant Maus.” Mrs. Duncan spoke warmly. 

“Yes, Mother.” Her son turned. “He showed 
himself worthy to assume the command after Craw¬ 
ford fell. For we practically fought our way back 
to the border. More than once we faced armed 
Mexicans in small towns, who refused to let us pass 
on the only available road.” 

“And Crawford?” asked Captain Duncan. 

“Lived six days in spite of his wound. On the 


189 


IN DAYS OF PEACE 

sixth day after he had been shot he opened his eyes 
for the first time and looked straight at Maus, who 
was sitting beside him. When Maus tried to get him 
to speak, there was a slight pressure of Crawford’s 
hand. Then Maus leaned nearer and told him that 
he would take care of his property and see that jus¬ 
tice should be done his memory.” 

Those who listened to Roy’s words understood 
what had been in the thought of Lieutenant Maus, 
and what the promise meant to the dying man. 
Someone would have to shoulder the blame for the 
whole affair when Mexico should present its side of 
the case in Washington and report the deaths of the 
Mexican officers and men. 

“We knew that he was fully conscious then, for as 
Maus ceased speaking, Crawford smiled faintly. 
Dad, it was a smile that I will never forget so long as 
I live! We saw him gather his last bit of strength 
and lift his arms about Maus’s shoulder. Then, 
with his head against Maus’s breast, he lapsed into 
unconsciousness. ’ ’ 

Roy’s voice choked. Captain Duncan’s hand 
shielded his eyes, but Mrs. Duncan and Bonita made 
no effort to hide their tears. The clock on the 
mantel ticked^noisily and the fire crackled on the 
hearth. Outside the wind shrieked and the sleet 
tapped on the window. 

“That’s all! He died the next day—the eight¬ 
eenth of January. The end came so silently that 


190 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


none of us knew the exact moment. He passed 
away as though in sleep. We wrapped his body in 
canvas and placed it on a pack mule and went on. 
The Satachi River was high and we had to swim 
across it, carrying his body with us; but when we 
reached Nacori we had to bury him there. Maus 
got some rough boards and we made a coffin, for 
there was none in the town and no one to make it 
but ourselves, and so we left him to his rest.” 

“ One of the finest, bravest, and gentlest men God 
ever made!” said the officer who had been Craw¬ 
ford’s comrade and friend for a lifetime, and the 
tears that were on Captain Duncan’s cheeks were no 
dishonour to a soldier. 

The shuffle of horses’ hoofs outside the cabin door 
caught their ears, and Roy rose, picking up his 
slicker. 

‘‘I must go on now,” he said. 

His mother stood in front of him and fastened the 
buttons of the raincoat, one by one, very carefully. 
He smiled down at her then stooped and kissed her 
gently. 

“Oh, I hate to have you go!” she sobbed, clinging 
to him tightly. 

Moved by her unusual display of emotion, her 
son patted her cheek tenderly. “I’ll be back again, 
Mumsy,” he promised, using the almost forgotten 
pet name of his childhood’s days. 

Father and son gripped hands but neither of them 


IN DAYS OF PEACE 


191 


spoke. Then Roy turned to the girl, whose eyes were 
dark with tragedy. 

“Good-bye, Nita,” he said. The cheek that he 
touched with his lips was icy cold. 

As he reached the door, Bonita seized the still 
burning lantern from the table. 

“ Wait, Roy!” she cried. “ Let me hold the light!” 

As he rode into the wild night with two soldiers as 
escorts, Roy turned in his saddle and looked back 
where a slender girlish figure, misty through the 
rain, was outlined against the dull glow of the room. 
Her hand, lifted high, held the lantern, and its rays 
shone about her head like a nimbus. Then he 
noticed that the light stretched out toward him and 
made a golden path. 


Chapter XXVIII 


Not on Official Record 



news of Crawford’s death intensified the 


danger to any American forces in Mexico; 


-B- and when Roy stopped for an hour at Bonita 
Canon, the family, with unvoiced forebodings, 
watched him start on his return trip to Lang’s Ranch. 
He carried orders to Lieutenant Maus to turn back 
to Mexico and await the signals of the hostiles, as 
agreed. 

Then life at Camp Bonita slipped back to its usual 
routine of official duties for Captain Duncan and 
small household responsibilities for the women. 

“I wish we had fresh cream for your coffee,” 
remarked Mrs. Duncan at the breakfast table, 
passing the can of condensed milk to her husband. 

“Bad off as the Ancient Mariner,” he commented 
dolefully. “‘Cattle, cattle everywhere and not a 
drop of milk!’ But I’ll see if I can’t buy a milch- 
cow from Riggs or Prue.” 

“They must have plenty,” his wife answered 
positively. 

“No, that’s the funny part of Arizona ranches. 


192 


NOT ON OFFICIAL RECORD 193 

They nearly all use condensed milk. Can’t milk a 
wild range cow, you know.” 

“Riggs doesn’t use canned milk,” asserted Bonita. 
“They have lovely cream and make butter, too. 
I forgot to tell you that the last time I was down 
there old Mr. Riggs said that he would let us have a 
cow to use—a real, gentle milch cow—provided I 
would drive it from their ranch to the camp without 
any help. It’s only five miles, you know.” 

“I would be glad to pay for the use of the cow 
while we are here. I’ll send Finnegan down for it 
to-day.” 

“He won’t rent it,” the girl explained, “but he will 
let me have it—not you—and I must drive it alone 
to our door. Then another part of the contract is 
that I am to pay for it in music each time I go to 
their ranch. You see”—she turned to Mrs. Dun¬ 
can—“they have a melodeon coming from a mail¬ 
order house in Chicago. All of them are crazy 
about music but none of them can play or sing.” 

“That’s a fine bluff he put up to you!” the cap¬ 
tain said as he pulled out his pipe and filled it pre¬ 
paratory to what Bonita called his smoke of peace. 

“It wasn’t a bluff,” she defended. “He really 
meant it, and you know I don’t mind singing and 
playing for them. I’d do it anyway, cow or no 
cow!” 

“Oh, the singing is all right”—Captain Duncan 
rose from the table—“but I guess it’s ‘good-bye, 


194 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


Bossy/ nevertheless. You couldn’t drive the cow 
down here alone, and Riggs knows it.” 

Bonita’s eyes snapped. “I couldn’t, eh? You 
just watch me! I am going after it right away.” 

Captain Duncan looked at his wife in consterna¬ 
tion as the girl hurried from the dining tent. 

“By Jove, Marcia! You don’t suppose she will 
try such a crazy thing?” he appealed. 

“You ought to know by this time,” she retorted, 
“that nobody ever knows what Bonita will do next.” 

Jane paused at the tent door, balancing platters, 
but whatever she intended to say was confined within 
her wagging grizzled head. Others might doubt Bo¬ 
nita’s ability to accomplish any purpose whatever, 
but to Jane it was a sure bet. She repeated the 
conversation to Finnegan in the kitchen tent, and 
he puffed up like a pouter-pigeon. 

“Huh! De cap’n doan’ know us! Caze we’ll 
git dat cow down yeah!” he bragged. 

“Caze miffin’! Yo’ ain’t er gwine. Miss Bonita 
she’s gwine fotch dat yeah cow all alone by herself, 
’thout any one else a holpin’ her a-tall! Yo’ heyah 
me talkin’?” 

Captain and Mrs. Duncan, standing at the cabin 
door, watched Bonita mount her horse and ride off 
alone. Through the looped-back flap of the kitchen 
tent poked Jane’s nodding head. Above and back 
of it loomed Finnegan’s speculative countenance. 
Bonita turned in her saddle and looked back at them 


NOT ON OFFICIAL RECORD 195 

all. Her waving hand was a final challenge as she 
urged Don into a gallop. 

The Riggs’s ranch was one of the many places where 
Bonita always found a hearty welcome from the 
rancher as well as his wife and daughters. It was a 
family joke that the father had told Rhody and 
Marthy they could have all the calves they could 
rope unaided. As the two girls used sidesaddles and 
long skirts, he felt very safe in his proposition. 
But their tallies, and the freshly cut ear tips of calves 
which they showed as proof, became too serious an 
inroad on the calf crop, and the old man called a 
halt. 

Rhody, the oldest daughter, gave such strict care 
to her little herd that it had crept almost to the 
point of equalling her father’s at the time Bonita 
had met the family. 

And the joke was intensified when the old man, 
losing money on a beef contract, had sold it to 
Rhody, expecting to see her make a fiasco of it, and 
had watched with amused chagrin while she doubled 
her profits. 

The shrewd good-humour of the Riggs girls and 
their parents had appealed to Bonita, while her gay 
laughter and music sung to a wheezing, dyspeptic 
accordion played by one of the Riggs boys, had 
completed her conquest of the entire family. 

The men of the family were working in the corral, 
and Bonita, slipping from her horse, tied it to a post 


196 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


in front of the house. Then the women discovered 
and welcomed her noisily. Talking together they 
entered the big room which was the sitting room 
of the ranch. 

They had not been there very long before Riggs 
wandered in and joined them, remarking that he had 
noticed her horse. Bonita lost no time in announc¬ 
ing her mission. 

“Oh, Mr. Riggs, is that cow ready? I’ve come 
after her, and I want to get back to camp by lunch 
time.” 

The old rancher chewed his tobacco more rapidly 
and stared with unblinking, faded blue eyes, but the 
gray beard quivered on his chest. 

“Aimin’ to take her with you?” he inquired 
casually. 

“Yes, right away,” was the brisk and businesslike 
reply. 

“You know the terms of the contract?” 

“Certainly. I am to drive her from your corral 
to the door of our cabin without any help from any 
one.” 

“So fur so good. But what else?” 

“Pay with music once a week.” 

“That’s right. I’ll turn her out when you’re 
ready to start if you’ll give your word on it.” 

“My word and my hand!” 

The rancher gripped the soft white hand in his 
horny palm. Solemnly up and down, like a stiff 


NOT ON OFFICIAL RECORD 


197 


pump handle, he moved his arm. Riggs was a game 
old fellow, but it was a notorious fact that where a 
contract was concerned he had never been known to 
give or take. To him a contract was a contract, 
nothing more. 

He ambled out of the room, and Rhody turned to 
Bonita, saying: 

“Paw is putting up a bluff on you. He thinks 
you can’t do it alone.” 

“That’s what he tried on us,” chuckled Marthy, 
“but we called his bluff pretty quick.” 

“I’ll get that cow to the camp alone if it takes the 
rest of my life!” Bonita’s eyes gleamed deter¬ 
minedly. 

“Good for you!” encouraged the other women, 
as they followed her to the corral. 

When she had mounted her horse, the corral gate 
was swung open by the rancher and a roan cow 
dashed out with a snort. Then it whirled and 
bellowed back at a three-months-old calf in the 
corral. 

Old Riggs stroked his beard to hide a smile, but 
Bonita caught the twinkle in his eyes and reined Don 
toward the cow. 

For some distance all went well, then the cow 
twisted and raced in the direction of the ranch and 
her calf. Bonita circumvented the scheme and 
after several dizzy circles had been described, the 
cow’s nose again was pointed toward the canon. 


198 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


From that moment until the edge of the mountains 
had been reached the contest was unabated. The 
cow was determined to return to its calf, and the 
girl was equally determined that it should go to the 
cabin. One who could win such a fight would be 
qualified to lead a forlorn hope on any battlefield. 

The climax came when the cow, assuming docility, 
reached the mouth of the canon, and then suddenly 
darted up the steep, overhanging cliff. Horse and 
rider scrambled after her, though it was no easy 
matter for anything but a goat to follow. Full 
tilt she raced along the edge of the canon wall above 
the camp, and Bonita, with hair streaming loose and 
horse on a mad run, kept closely at her heels. 

Leaning forward in her saddle, the girl lashed the 
flanks of the cow with her whip. The whip snapped 
and doubled limply. The cow galloped gaily on¬ 
ward, headed again for the ranch. Don shook his 
head stubbornly and fought to reach the camp in 
the canon below them. He balked and he bucked, 
and while Bonita struggled with him, the cow was 
losing no time on the home trail. 

Tears of vexation filled the girl’s eyes. All of 
them had said that she couldn’t do it. They would 
never forget it. Anger grew. She looked at the 
useless whip, and then Don cocked his ears, for the 
words Bonita Curtice was saying emphatically were 
very familiar to Don, albeit he had never before 
heard his young mistress talk that way. Soldiers 


NOT ON OFFICIAL RECORD 


199 


did it, and Don knew that when those words were 
uttered, trouble loomed for him unless he behaved. 
Bonita was swearing. 

Don turned and followed the cow. 

Down in the canon Sergeant Faulkner coming out 
of his tent caught a fleeting glimpse of a racing cow, 
a running horse, and a figure with long hair. It dis¬ 
appeared immediately. Remembering that Bonita 
had ridden off without any escort, Faulkner’s bandy, 
rheumatic legs accomplished a Marathon miracle to 
the cabin. 

“Cap’n Duncan, sah!” The salute was forgotten. 
The old soldier’s voice trembled and the whites of 
his eyes gleamed conspicuously. “Ah jes’ done seen 
a ’Pache chasin’ stock up yondah ober de camp, an’ 
—an’—Miss Bonita—she ain’t corned back yit-” 

“Saddle up!” Duncan turned into the house, 
buckled on belt and pistol and slung the strap of his 
field glasses over his shoulder. His wife watched 
him with terrified eyes, but did not speak. It was 
no time for words. 

A troop of the famous Fighting Tenth Cavalry 
made a record in saddling on that day. As Captain 
Duncan led his men up the sheer slope of Bonita 
Canon, scrambling hoofs dislodged stones that 
crashed down into the gully. Grim-faced, heavily 
breathing, the troopers, with pistols drawn and 
cocked, gained the top of the cliff. 

An instant they paused, listening. Captain Dun- 


200 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


can lifted his glasses and scanned the mesquite-dotted 
flat. Nothing met his view. There was no sound. 
Breathlessly they all waited. 

In the silence they heard Bonita’s voice; clearly 
and furiously it came. The men glanced at each 
other. 

“Oh—oh—you beast!” 

Following the captain the troop dashed toward a 
thick growth of high mesquite. Out of it darted a 
snorting cow, head down and tail switching high, and 
back of the cow, on a lathered horse, rode Bonita. 

The troop halted without any order from its 
commander. 

“Well, I’ll be hanged!” he ejaculated in disgust. 
“It’s Bonita and that damned cow!” 

Like a gigantic jackrabbit, with a hop, skip, and 
jump, the cow dodged the troop, passed it, and was 
homeward bound. Captain Duncan, realizing that 
cream—real cream—was evaporating before his 
very eyes, spurred his horse and shouted to the men, 
“Head her off! Don’t let her get away!” 

They started en masse, white teeth gleaming in 
their grinning black faces. 

“No! No! Keep back! Let her alone!” screamed 
Bonita, flashing past in the wake of the cow. 

The men hesitated, and the officer remembered 
that interference would mean no cow—no cream. 

“Halt!” he called sharply. The men obeyed. 

Sitting on their horses they watched Bonita force 


NOT ON OFFICIAL RECORD 


201 


the cow to the edge of the canon, where with a loud 
snort she struck down the steep decline; Don, like 
Nemesis, kept at her heels, his nose resting on the 
cow’s broad back. 

Back of the girl rode Captain Duncan; and back of 
him in single file rode a fully armed troop of the 
famous Indian-fighting Tenth Cavalry which formed 
a guard of honour to the cabin door. 

Tired, but triumphant, Bonita watched Finnegan 
tie a rope about the cow’s neck and lead it toward 
the troop stables. Then she gave a deep sigh of 
satisfaction. 

She had called Riggs’s bluff! 


Chapter XXIX 
Threads of the Web 

D OCTOR EAGAN drove into camp for his 
monthly inspection of health conditions, and, 
official duties completed, he and Captain 
Duncan lingered in the dining tent after luncheon. 
Mrs. Duncan and Bonita had left the men enjoying 
cigars. 

“The last letter we had from Roy,” the captain 
said as he flicked the ash from cigar tip into a tray, 
4 ‘stated that the entire band of hostiles had camped 
at a point only half a mile from Maus, near Fronteras. 
They refuse to surrender, but are making no effort 
to move away from the Canon de los Embudos.” 

“Maus did good work in getting that agreement 
out of Geronimo, to meet Crook.” 

“Yes, but will Geronimo keep his word?” ques¬ 
tioned Duncan tersely. “I have no faith in Geroni- 
mo’s pledges. This uncertainty from day to day is 
getting on my nerves.” 

“You are not the only man who feels that way. 
But of all the disgusted men I know. Cooper is the 
worst.” 


202 



THREADS OF THE WEB 


203 


“Wfhat is his special kick?” 

“ You know his troop was over in the San Simon?” 
Duncan nodded and the doctor went on: “I was over 
there inspecting and he told me about it. He re¬ 
ceived positive information that the hostiles were just 
back of Doubtful Canon. In fact, he saw their 
signal lights from his camp, notified General Crook, 
and asked permission to go in pursuit. The order 
came for him to take his troop across the San Simon 
Valley during daylight and make no effort to conceal 
their movements. Once in Doubtful Canon they were 
to stay concealed , and under cover of darkness return to 
their former camp site. These tactics were to be repeated 
daily until further orders. 

“You may judge the effect of travelling day and 
night. Horses and men were played out,” growled 
the doctor, and his red hair bristled belligerently. 

“What the devil is Crook driving at? Maybe he 
thinks that Geronimo will believe that the whole 
United States cavalry is en route to Doubtful 
Canon!” 

“Cooper said he felt like the leading man in a 
farce, marching the soldiers off the stage to scurry be¬ 
hind the scenes, enter from the opposite side, and so 
impersonate a tremendous army. But the audience 
that watched from behind the rocks was no more de¬ 
ceived than people who are in a theatre.” 

“These Sunday-school tactics are demoralizing 
us all!” the captain struck the table with his fist. 


204 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


“We can’t put our true opinions in reports, and the 
authorities in Washington seem to be deaf, dumb, 
and blind. The Lord knows that the Arizona news¬ 
papers make clamour enough to be heard, even back 
there.” 

Eagan smiled grimly. “Cooper’s report would 
read, ‘Off again, on again, going forever.’ He 
made that trip for three solid weeks, and by that 
time Geronimo had travelled elsewhere. Cooper 
says that the only information of military value he 
gathered was that the ranch hens in Doubtful 
Canon never lay fresh eggs.” 

Duncan found his usual expletive, “Damn,” 
totally inadequate to express his feelings. He 
chewed the end off his stogie and spat it out, then 
holding the cigar in his hand, he looked at it in dis¬ 
gusted silence. 

“It’s a rotten mess,” he grunted at last, not re¬ 
ferring to the stogie, “and it’s getting worse every 
day.” He rose. “Let’s go to the cabin.” 

As they entered the room where Bonita and Mrs. 
Duncan were sitting, Washington was putting a fresh 
log on the fire and the pitch-pine kindling snapped 
and spluttered like miniature artillery. Since the 
day when prehistoric man built the first fire, none of 
his masculine descendants have been able to resist 
the temptation to poke a burning log, even though 
that log is impeccable. 

Captain Duncan was true to the type of his 


THREADS OF THE WEB 


205 


ancestors, and as soon as Washington had vanished, 
the officer, armed with the poker, made furious 
assault. 

“It’s a nice dry log this time,” Mrs. Duncan 
addressed the doctor, laughing. “It won’t smoke us 
out as it did during your last trip.” 

“It’s really a mere matter of form, my coming 
to inspect this camp,” the doctor said, “but the 
visit with you folks makes up for the long trip. 
They’re not so well-off in other places. A number of 
sick men have been sent in to the hospital at Bowie. 
By the way”—he turned to Duncan—“a young 
officer of your regiment—Stanley—had a pretty 
close shave.” 

Bonita rose to her feet, her face was averted, and 
her hand reached out until it rested on the mantel¬ 
piece. She stared into the blaze. The keen glance 
of the army surgeon could not read her face, but he 
noted the white knuckles of her hand, and he stroked 
his short pointed beard thoughtfully. The silence 
in the room was marked. 

“Ah—what was the trouble—with Stanley?” 
Duncan’s voice was forced. 

“Pneumonia and a ‘don’t-give-a-damnness’,” 
replied the doctor brusquely, indignant at the ap¬ 
parent indifference of them all. For he, himself, 
in spite of his reputation as a grouch, had formed a 
strong affection for Gerald Stanley. 

“Well”—he rose to his feet—“I must be going 


£06 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


along now. Is there anything I can do for you, 
Mrs. Duncan?” 

“Nothing, thank you, Doctor,” she shook his hand. 
He looked deliberately across her shoulder into 
Bonita’s eyes and saw a look of appeal that reminded 
him of the hand on the mantel. 

“Is there anything that I can do for you in the 
garrison, Miss Bonita?” he spoke very slowly. 

For an instant her lips parted as though to speak, 
then her lowered lids hid her eyes, the lips closed, and 
she shook her head. He turned away and mounted 
the light buckboard. But as the mules trotted 
briskly toward Fort Bowie, the doctor scowled. 
“Nigger in the woodpile somewhere,” he com¬ 
mented, “but I’ll be damned if I am going to meddle 
in family affairs.” 

The doctor would have been surprised if he had 
known that at that very moment Bonita, back in 
her room, was writing a message which was likely 
to mix him up very much in a family affair. It 
read: 

Dear Jerry: 

You said that if I called you, you would hear me and come, 
even though you were dead. 

I am calling you now. Oh, Jerry, Jerry, please come or write 
me one word. 

Bonita. 

The sealed envelope she addressed to Lieutenant 
Gerald Stanley. Then, after some hesitation, she 


THREADS OF THE WEB <m 

enclosed it in a larger one on which she wrote the 
name of the doctor. 

A few minutes sufficed to slip into her riding 
clothes and with the missive tucked out of sight* 
she hurried through the back door of her room and: 
waited impatiently until Washington brought her 
horse. 

Riding around the cabin she paused at the door 
and called out, “I am going for a ride!” 

Mrs. Duncan appeared. “Where is Finnegan?” 

“I don’t need him. I’ll be home soon.” 

Along the road toward Fort Bowie she urged her 
horse at rapid gait for several miles. Then guiding 
him up the side of a hill she reached a point where she 
could look some distance toward the garrison. But 
the buckboard was gone. It would be impossible for 
her to overtake it now. 

She had thought of such emergency, hence the 
second envelope. No one but the doctor must 
know that she had written to Jerry. 

Don snorted and leaped at the sharp dig of her heel 
against his side as she reined him toward Prue’s ranch, 
which was a mile from the entrance of the canon. 

“Evenin’, Miss Bonita!” sounded a voice from on 
high. 

She halted and looked up at Prue who was tinker¬ 
ing at the machinery of the windmill. 

“Aimin’ to light?” 

Bonita shook her head. “No, I just wanted to 


208 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


find out whether you are going to Fort Bowie soon? 
I was going to ask the doctor to attend to something 
for me in the garrison, but I forgot to mention it 
while he was in camp. I tried to catch up with 
him, but those mules of his are too fast for Don!” 
she finished with a laugh. 

The rancher caterpillared down the framework of 
the windmill and wiped his greasy hands on his 
overalls, while he beamed upon her. 

“Well,” he drawled, “I kinder thought I’d go in 
soon. But if it’s any accommodation to you. I’ll 
make it to-morrow.” 

“Oh, that will be fine!” she cried in delight. “All 
I want is to get this letter to the doctor.” 

The man accepted the missive. “Better light 
and set,” he urged, “or the old woman will think 
you’ve slighted her.” 

“I must get back to camp, but tell her I will be 
down and see her soon.” 

“All right. I’ll take care of your letter,” he called 
after her. 

She smiled her thanks as she looked back at him, 
confident that her letter would be in Jerry’s hands 
the next day. 

But an invisible thread wrapped tightly about her as 
she rode toward the camp. For shortly after she had 
disappeared in the canon, a cowpuncher dismounted 
at the Prue Ranch with news of vital importance. 
A cattle buyer, the first of the season, was in Willcox 


THREADS OF THE WEB 


209 


contracting steers at higher prices than for several 
seasons. And Prue, eager to make a sale at such 
figures while the buyer was in that section, started 
before daylight the next morning for Willcox. 

Bonita’s letter was crammed into the pigeonhole of a 
badly littered desk, and there among a mass of paid 
and receipted bills, it lay forgotten while the dust of 
months gathering upon it turned into the dust of 
passing years, and prairie grass was growing upon 
Prue’s grave. 

In the garrison of Fort Bowie Lieutenant Stanley 
fingered a package of letters that had been returned 
to him unopened and bearing the endorsement, 
“Further communications will be destroyed unread.” 

Grimly the young officer determined that as soon as 
he was able he would obtain twenty-four hours’ leave 
of absence, so that he could go to the camp and see 
Bonita in the presence of her guardians and give her 
those letters himself. 

But before he was able to gain strength enough for 
the journey events below the Mexican border stirred 
the entire population of Arizona Territory, both civil¬ 
ian and military, and every officer and soldier, as well 
as every Apache scout, was pressed into service. 

So Lieutenant Stanley, in charge of a small detach¬ 
ment of scouts, was ordered to patrol the Mexican 
border until further orders, taking the train at Bowie 
station and starting immediately for Mexico, via Will¬ 
cox instead of the usual trail past Bonita Canon. 


Chapter XXX 


Geronimo Checkmates Crook 
DAY followed day, Bonita watched the 



arrival of each courier from Fort Bowie, and 


lingered in the room while Captain Duncan 
sorted the letters for the troop and for the family. 

Though she turned away without the one letter 
for which she prayed, she was still confident that 
Jerry would send her word when he would leave 
Fort Bowie for the camp. She even planned what 
she would say to the Duncans when the note arrived. 
Just a casual remark that he was joining his troop 
and would pass Bonita Canon on a certain day and 
hour and that she would ride down to meet him. If 
they objected, she would defy them and tell them 
that Jerry meant more to her than the whole world, 
and that she would be loyal to him, no matter what 
he had done. 

Day after day, Don was led to the cabin door and 
Bonita, thrilled with expectation, hastened to a high 
ledge out of sight of the camp, where she could sit 
on her horse and watch the road that led through 
Apache Pass to Fort Bowie. There was a curve in 


210 


GERONIMO CHECKMATES CROOK 211 

the road where she could see Jerry long before he 
would know that she was waiting. 

But the only riders who passed during the weeks 
she kept her vigil were occasional cowpunchers or the 
couriers who reached camp at two o’clock with the 
mail. Always she followed them into the camp, and 
waited patiently for the expected note—in vain. 
But hope is hard to kill. 

If Mrs. Duncan noticed the girl’s abstraction, she 
made no comments to the captain, and Bonita spent 
many hours perched on a board seat that Finnegan 
had placed in a fork of the trunk of a newly leafed 
oak tree which grew halfway between the cabin and 
the road; but the girl’s wistful eyes more often 
watched the road than the pages of her book as she 
sat hidden by the thick branches. 

A big open wagon, drawn by four mules and filled 
with singing soldiers, came creakingly up the canon 
bound for dry wood for the troop cook and for the 
great open fire around which the men gathered in the 
evening. 

Many times Bonita and the captain had gone 
quietly through the brush to listen to the untrained 
but musical chorus of the soldiers, who could not 
have uttered a note if they had been aware of their 
audience. Camp life was a joy to the enlisted men 
of the Tenth, and their laughter and singing, ac¬ 
companied by the plunking of banjos and thrum¬ 
ming of guitars, nightly woke the canon echoes until 


212 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


“ tattoo” sent them into their tents to wait for “ taps’ 5 
and darkness and silence. 

The men passed out of sight and up the canon, sing¬ 
ing: 


‘See dat watermillyun 
Smilin’ on de vine! 

How Ah wish dat watermillyun 
Hit wuz mine. 

Oh, gimme, oh, gimme, 

How Ah wish yo’ wou’d, 

Dat watermillyun smilin’ on de vine! 
Ham-bone am sweet, 

Chicken am good 

Possum meat am bery, bery fine. 

But gimme, oh, gimme, 

How Ah wish yo’ wou’d, 

Dat watermillyun smilin’ on de vine!’” 


The last notes mingled with the sound of a gallop¬ 
ing horse. Bonita leaned forward. The name ever 
present in her thoughts sprang to her lips—“Jerry!” 

But it was not Jerry. It was a courier. And as 
Bonita descended from the tree and ran toward the 
cabin, the rider had reached the door. He leaped 
from his horse, saluted the captain who had come out 
on the steps, and delivered a letter. The soldier rode 
to the stables. 

“For me, Uncle Jim?” cried the girl. 

The light of expectancy was in her eyes. “For 
me?” she repeated, breathlessly. 

Captain Duncan was tearing open the letter. 

“By Jove! Listen to this, Marcia,” he ejaculated. 


GERONIMO CHECKMATES CROOK 213 

as Mrs. Duncan came out and stood close to his 
shoulder. 

Bonita was swept into a whirl of uncertainty. 
Was the letter for her? were they going to read it? 
Or- 

But it was no love missive in the officer’s hand. 
“Geronimo is off again!” he exclaimed. Then he 
read aloud: 

Dear Dad : 

Hell is loose again. At least Geronimo is and that means about 
the same thing, so far as I can see. 

Crook got here ten days after Maus had asked him to come, 
and between the risks of attacks by pursuing Mexicans, the 
restlessness and suspicions of the hostiles, and the sale of mescal 
to them by a lot of dirty little scoundrels who are worse than the 
Apaches themselves, we have been standing on the edge of a 
volcano that we knew might get busy any moment. 

The worst of it all was that if anything had gone wrong, Maus 
and the rest of us would have had the whole responsibility 
dumped on our shoulders. And if any row with Mexico had 
developed, maybe you can figure just where we would have stood 
officially, but I own it’s a sight more than I can. 

Geronimo came into our camp every day. He seemed to 
think that we were going to trick him, or possibly surround him 
when other forces should join us. Crook’s arrival was tardy, but 
after all it happened in time to save our bacon, on the 25th. 

The conference was held on the 26th, and Geronimo’s attitude 
was positively impudent. The old devil made it very plain that 
the only conditions on which he would surrender would be: 
that the band of hostiles be sent east for a period not exceeding 
two years, and that they should take with them only such mem¬ 
bers of their families as elected to go, and leave Nana, who is too 
old to be any factor, at Fort Apache. 

The other proposition was that the whole bunch of them re¬ 
turn to Fort Apache, just as before, without losing any privi¬ 
leges or plunder, or being subjected to any discipline. 

Geronimo stated flatly that if neither of these terms was ac- 



214 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

cepted then and there, he and his band would go on murdering 
and pillaging.” 

“Heavens!” Mrs. Duncan interrupted. 

I don’t know what the authorities in Washington will say 
when they learn that Crook has accepted Geronimo’s first de¬ 
mand—to send them east for two years. But it is easy to guess 
what the people of Arizona will think about it. 

The conference was on the twenty-sixth. Crook left the 28th. 
He planned to push through to Fort Bowie in two days, so must 
have been in the garrison the night of the twenty-ninth. 

But, get this, Dad. On the night of the twenty-ninth, Geronimo 
and Natchez picked twenty of their best bucks and thirteen of 
their strongest women and beat it. The Lord only knows where 
they’ve gone and we are guessing what will happen next. 

The fat is in the fire now. Ulzahney, Nana, Catley, nine other 
men and forty-seven women and children have been left behind. 
So you can see that Geronimo simply rid himself of those who 
impeded his movements. He is better prepared now to keep us 
jumping, for he has plenty of ammunition and can buy or steal 
food and horses in any part of Arizona or Mexico. 

Maus has ordered Faison to escort the Chiricahuas left on our 
hands into Bowie, and a heavy detail goes with them. Shipp 
and I, with the balance of our scouts, under command of Maus, 
like Little Bo-peep, will take up the trail of “Crook’s Lost 
Lambs.” 

Our scouts are openly averse to going back over the same 
ground again. Really you can’t blame them. I don’t mind 
saying to you, Dad, that the effect of this fiasco of Crook’s is 
already in evidence among our scouts. They are on the verge of 
mutiny. Their term of enlistment expires next month and they 
know they can quit then and have money to burn. 

But the rest of us are just commissioned officers of the U. S. 
Army, so like Tennyson’s Brook, will probably go on forever, and 
someday we will wake up and discover that the rest of the world 
has been dead and buried for years, and Gabriel is blowing 
reveille. The only satisfaction we have is that we have rounded 
up seventy-nine of the hostiles—the larger part of Geronimo’s 
band. 

Maus ought to have a!medal for the way he has handled a mighty 
ticklish situation ever since poor Crawford was shot. Well, the 


GER0NIM0 CHECKMATES CROOK 215 


First Infantry and our own Tenth won’t be ashamed to meet the 
Third and tell them about Crawford. 

Good-bye. Faison is ready to start now, so adios and good 
luck to you all. Love to Mother and Bonita. I’ll write when I 
get a chance. 

Affectionately, 

Roy. 

(Headed for God-knows-where.) 

“What do you suppose will happen now?” de¬ 
manded Mrs. Duncan. 

Her husband folded the letter slowly and looked at 
her. “You said ‘Heavens’ a little while ago, Mother. 
I’ll go you one better—‘Hell’!” 


Chapter XXXI 

General Miles Takes Command 
HE telegraph wires between Fort Bowie and 



Washington fairly sizzled during the forty- 


A eight hours after Geronimo’s escape had been 
reported. But as official messages were transmitted 
over military lines, their purport was known only 
to Lieutenant-General Sheridan and Adjutant-Gen¬ 
eral Drum at the Washington end, and General 
Crook and the telegraph operators in Arizona. 

Three days after Geronimo had broken his pledge 
and stampeded, the official communications became 
public news. 

General Crook, stung by the tenor of official 
telegrams, which were thinly veiled reprimands, 
had asked to be relieved from the Department of 
Arizona, which he had commanded for eight years. 
The very same day, General Nelson A. Miles, who 
was then in command of the Department of the 
Missouri, received a telegram at Fort Leavenworth, 
ordering him to proceed immediately to Fort Bowie 
to relieve General Crook. 

The selection of General Miles had been logical, 


216 


GENERAL MILES TAKES COMMAND 217 


in view of his brilliant record with the Sioux Indians 
in 1877, while he was colonel of the Fifth Infantry. 
During that time Sheridan had been in command of 
the Department of the Missouri. 

Still further back in Sheridan’s memory was the 
splendid work of Miles in 1874, when he had led the 
expedition against the Comanches, under Chief 
Quannah Parker, and their Kiowa allies. The 
final proof of Miles’s executive ability tempered with 
justice had been his adjustment of serious conditions 
among the Cheyennes and Arapahoes in Indian 
Territory, when he first assumed command of the 
Department of the Missouri in July, 1885. 

Sheridan, now promoted to Lieutenant-General 
in command of the army, based his choice on his 
knowledge of Miles as man and officer. 

General Miles arrived at Fort Bowie on the twelfth 
day of April. The garrison was located in an arena¬ 
like space in the Chiricahua Mountains. On all 
sides rose precipitous slopes covered with immense 
boulders which afforded hiding places for outlaw 
Indians. 

Apache Pass, which led from the little fort toward 
Bonita Canon, had been the scene of more atrocities 
than any other place except Fort Apache in the 
White Mountains. The toll of lives could be par¬ 
tially reckoned by inscriptions in the military grave¬ 
yard. Men, women, children, ranchers, miners, 
travellers, stage-drivers, cowpunchers, and soldiers, 


218 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

they had come from widely distant places and walks 
of life to lie down side by side in the little patch of 
ground enclosed by a white picket fence. 

Beneath nearly every name and date three words 
told the common fate—“Killed by Apaches.” 

Into this terrific condition of affairs now stepped 
the gallant and experienced officer, a man of heart 
as well as of invincible purpose and military science. 

By an extraordinary example of misapplied 
strategy General Crook had pushed soldiers and 
horses to the limit of their endurance, and his mis¬ 
placed confidence in the promises of Geronimo and 
Natchez, which had enabled them to escape, had 
nullified everything that had been accomplished. 

Arizona was a new section to Miles, geographically, 
and he was not personally acquainted with the men 
under his command—a matter of vital importance 
in the successful conduct of military operations. 
The people of Arizona Territory had lost faith in the 
desire or ability of the troops to capture the Apaches, 
and the temper of the citizens had been evinced by 
their petitions to Washington. 

There was no time for the new Department Com¬ 
mander to sit down and study the situation. 

While yet the troopers were spurring their jaded 
horses over mountain peaks and down deep canons, 
Miles started his campaign by dismissing all of the 
Apache scouts who were in the least tolerant of the 
hostiles. In this process of elimination he found 


GENERAL MILES TAKES COMMAND 219 


many who had taken a tribal pledge, or were closely 
connected by kinship to those with Geronimo. 

This was diametrically opposed to Crook’s methods, 
for the latter had employed as scouts members of the 
same tribes which were being pursued. 

The next step was an investigation regarding the 
ammunition issued to the scouts. Officers were con¬ 
vinced that missing munitions were concealed in 
caches established by the scouts and visited by the 
hostiles. 

A limited number of White Mountain, Tontos, and 
San Carlos Apaches, whose tribal animosity to the 
Chiricahuas was well known, were employed as guides 
to the regular troops, but not to act in bodies com¬ 
posed entirely of Indians. 

These things accomplished, General Miles gave his 
attention to forming a second expedition into Mexico 
along the lines of the one formerly commanded by 
Captain Crawford, but this time with soldiers, while 
Indians acted merely as guides. To this end he 
studied the men in his department, and Captain 
Lawton, of the Fourth Cavalry, who had a fine 
record in frontier Indian campaigns, was given 
command. 

Lawton was a man of Herculean strength which 
enabled him to pick up a man of ordinary size and 
hurl him fully fifteen feet. An accomplishment 
valuable in close fighting, but not demonstrated 
under ordinary circumstances. 


220 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


With Lawton was associated a young doctor sta¬ 
tioned at Fort Huachuca, Captain Leonard Wood. 
General Miles’s ability to size up a man was not at 
fault when he decided that the twenty-four-year-old 
Assistant Surgeon would be a valuable person in the 
expedition. Wood, a graduate of Harvard, was an 
athlete and a student, one whose keen observation of 
white men, as well as red men, working under the 
same conditions, would be of real scientific impor¬ 
tance to army officers. 

But not even Miles’s perspicacity suggested to him 
then that one day the whole American nation, and 
even Europe, would be familiar with the name of the 
fair-haired, blue-eyed young doctor. A name that 
America has written on pages of her history—Leon¬ 
ard Wood. 

In addition to Lawton and Wood, Johnson of the 
Eighth Infantry, Benton, Brown, Walsh, and Smith 
of the Fourth Cavalry, and Lieutenant Leighton 
Finley of the Tenth Cavalry completed the officers 
of the second expedition into Mexico. 

While this command was pressing after the fleeing 
hostiles, Washington authorities were aware that 
General Miles was perfecting plans to surround all of 
the Chiricahuas who had remained on the reserva¬ 
tion at Fort Apache. That place was their home in 
conjunction with their allies, the Warm Spring 
Apaches. 

General Sheridan’s letters emphasized President 


GENERAL MILES TAKES COMMAND 221 

Cleveland's opinion that the Chiricahuas should be 
removed from Arizona Territory, but that when such 
action was taken, not one Chiricahua Apache should 
be allowed to remain there, for if only a few escaped 
they would become a serious menace and incite other 
tribes to join them in future warfare . 

General Miles had determined to utilize his knowl¬ 
edge of the then unknown heliograph, which he had 
seen in the office of General Myer, chief of the signal 
corps, twenty years previously. It was a novel idea 
in Apache warfare, but the Department Commander 
had to some extent experimented with the instru¬ 
ment in Montana and later between Vancouver Bar¬ 
racks and Mount Hood for a distance of fifty miles. 

The heliograph was the invention of a British army 
officer and had been used successfully in India. 
Arizona’s atmospheric conditions were similar to 
those in India, with inaccessible mountains, lack of 
communication between far-distant sections and the 
intensely hot sun. 

Twenty-seven stations were established on moun¬ 
tain peaks from twenty-five to thirty miles apart. 
The mirrors with which the little instruments were 
equipped were mounted on tripods and the flashes of 
sunlight were interrupted to make them long or 
short. The Morse code was used, but where the 
telegraph gave its message of dots and dashes audi¬ 
bly, the heliograph sent its message to the eye. 

So simple was the method that an enlisted man of 


222 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


ordinary intelligence but with no previous knowledge 
of telegraphy could qualify as a heliograph operator 
in two or three weeks, and in four hours a message 
could be transmitted over inaccessible mountains 
for a distance of eight hundred miles. 

While General Miles was perfecting his plans, the 
people of Arizona Territory watched with little hope 
of relief from the intolerable conditions with which 
they had been harassed for thirty consecutive years. 

But it was not known that the new Department 
Commander, though he had never served in that 
section, had constantly watched the Apache prob¬ 
lem. Whenever a raid had been reported. General 
Miles, in a far-distant place, had studied the Apache 
trail on maps. 

In this way he learned their favourite mountains, 
trails, places most favourable for their hiding, the 
permanent water holes or springs, and as far as possi¬ 
ble, the habits of the Apaches in peace and on the 
warpath. 

And now in the very heart of the Apache country, 
he strengthened this knowledge by a practical per¬ 
sonal survey, while cowboys on lonely trails, officers 
in garrisons and camps, and women living in small, 
isolated ranches where children played unaware of 
constant menace, all asked the question: 

“What will Miles do?” 

In Washington President Cleveland and Lieu¬ 
tenant-General Sheridan voiced the same question. 


Chapter XXXII 
Bonita Decides 

I T WAS the second evening in April. Almost a 
year had passed since the beginning of the Ge- 
ronimo campaign. The Duncans, weighing the 
probabilities of changes when the new Department 
Commander should arrive at Fort Bowie, were sur¬ 
prised to see Roy ride up to the door and dismount. 

“Well, what’s the news?” asked his father after 
the welcomes had subsided. 

“I don’t know,” Roy answered, pulling off his 
gauntlets and leaning over to flick his boots with 
them. “We’re going to Bowie to wait for further 
orders. Tagged after old Geronimo’s bunch until 
they split trail and that settled us. We hadn’t 
much chance at the beginning for they had ten hours’ 
start. Our scouts lost interest in the chase. Their 
only thought was to get back to their reservations 
and draw their pay. They were ripe for mutiny.” 
He turned toward his mother. “How’s dinner? 
I’m starved for a home meal.” 

“I’ll run out and hurry Aunt Jane,” Bonita vol¬ 
unteered. 


223 


224 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

Roy watched the girl as she passed through the 
doorway, and his mother read his thoughts. Then 
he rose and sauntered over to join his father. Mrs. 
Duncan’s eyes were meditative. She realized that 
the experiences of the last year had altered him in 
more ways than one. His shoulders were held more 
squarely, there was a touch of self-reliance that had 
been lacking, his face had lost its latent weakness, 
and his eyes were those of a man. The thrill of 
mother pride that she felt was mingled with regret 
for the boyhood that had vanished forever. No one, 
not even her husband, had ever guessed the intense, 
repressed affection of Mrs. Duncan for her son. 

“Dad,” Roy asked, “had you heard anything 
about the leading citizens having sent a big petition 
to Washington demanding that someone else be sent 
here in place of Crook?” 

“Yes; and at the same time another bunch of lead¬ 
ing citizens were getting up a banquet in honour of 
Crook’s capture of Geronimo,” commented the older 
man caustically. “No human being can please all of 
the people all the time. But if any man in the army 
can handle this mess, that man is General Miles!” 

“‘Well, I don’t want your job,’ says the shave-tail 
to the brigadier,” retorted the young officer. “If 
Geronimo realized the commotion he has caused two 
brigadier-generals and the Commanding General of 
the army, the old reprobate would puff up to beat 
the band. Think of it. Dad! Almost a year’s 


BONITA DECIDES 


225 


work—and hard work at that—with forty-three 
companies of infantry and forty troops of cavalry. 
Just a joke for a bunch of Apaches. Makes me mad 
as the deuce!” 

“Wait until you see Miles work.” The captain 
spoke between meditative puffs on his pet meer¬ 
schaum, which Bonita called his pipe of peace. 
“He’s like an expert civil engineer. Makes his 
plans quietly,\ sizes up the material, and each tiny 
rivet, each screw, each girder, slips into place as 
though by magic and the bridge that has been pro¬ 
nounced impossible is accomplished.” 

“He has done some pretty fine bridge-building in 
his time,” Mrs. Duncan spoke. “Bridges leading to 
civilization.” 

“As an officer who has served under him, my son, 
I want to tell you that the big thing about him is 
that the human material cooperates with him, and 
credit is given by him where it is deserved—not 
made into a halo for his own head. But he will 
never get credit for his work while he lives. Too much 
politics in the army, my boy. Too much politics!” 

“Unless the people will build a monument to him 
after he is dead,” Mrs. Duncan said bitterly, “he 
will be forgotten.” 

“The West is his monument,” replied her husband. 
“He needs no other!” 

Light steps approached the cabin, and Roy turned 
expectantly. 


226 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


“Hoo—hoo!” Bonita called from outside. 

“Chow!” 

Roy led the advance. 

The April day cooled perceptibly with nightfall, 
and Finnegan laid fresh wood on the fire when the 
family returned to the cabin. Roy glanced about 
the room and at those who gathered around the cheer¬ 
ful blaze. 

“Gee! This home business is all it’s cracked up 
to be, Dad!” 

“Nothing like it. Son,” the captain answered, 
smiling back at his wife. 

Bonita did not speak. She was gazing at the flames 
which threw ruddy lights on her dark hair. Home! 
Roy’s words woke memories of a dream home. Her 
home and Jerry’s! But her quivering lips whis¬ 
pered, “He did not answer my letter. He was just 
playing with me!” 

The girl was not aware that Roy was regarding her 
intently. 

“Say, Mother, do you remember the time I kid¬ 
napped Nita at Shipp Island?” He spoke abruptly. 

Mrs. Duncan laughed and the captain chuckled. 
“That’s regimental history,” the mother replied. 
“Everybody remembers that!” 

“Well,” Roy continued deliberately, “I’m going 
to do it again.” 

Bonita looked up with a light laugh which died upon 
her lips as she met his eyes. 


BONITA DECIDES * 227 

“Why—why-” she stammered in sudden con¬ 

fusion. 

“Is this a proposal, Roy?” his father asked 
jokingly. 

“Yes, sir,” was the grave reply. 

Roy looked at his mother, who nodded her head— 
at his father, who eyed him humorously, yet with a 
serious pucker between his heavy brows. 

Bonita shivered and drew her chair nearer the fire. 
Pathetic appeal was in the hands she held out to the 
blaze. Her fingers curled tensely against her up¬ 
turned palms as she remembered the night of the 
Christmas dance. 

Roy flushed and cleared his throat. 

“I want to marry Nita, if she’ll have me,” he said 
blunderingly, but he looked his father squarely in 
the eye. 

No one spoke, and Roy turned to the girl. 

“Will you, Nita?” 

The curving fingers pressed tightly. “Why— 
lwhy—of course not!” 

Mrs. Duncan counted her stitches. Captain 
Duncan puffed silently on his pipe. Bonita turned 
again toward the fire, that no one might see her 
quivering lips. Roy sighed as he walked over to the 
window and stood twitching the curtain cord with 
little nervous jerks while he stared out into the 
darkness. There was no ray of light now making a 
pathway to the girl who held a lantern. 



228 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


His parents glanced at him, then at each other. 
Captain Duncan rose and went to Bonita’s side, look¬ 
ing down at her with serious, kindly eyes. 

“It would please us very much if you could say 
‘yes/ Nita, my girl,” he said gently. “But we will 
not urge you now.” 

She lifted her eyes to his, then to Roy’s mother. 

“You’ve always belonged to us, dear,” the older 
woman spoke with unwonted tenderness, “and we 
hoped that you always would.” 

“But I do not love Roy—that way.” 

“Many of the happiest marriages are built on 
friendship at the start,” Roy’s mother affirmed. 
“The love that comes after marriage is more lasting.” 

Roy turned suddenly. The curtain rolled up with 
a snap. Bonita started and faced him. 

“Oh, come on, Nita. Be a sport and take me!” 
he blurted out. 

Torn by conflicting emotions Bonita looked silently 
at those who had shared their home with her and had 
filled the places of her dead parents ever since she 
was four years old. Outside of their home she had 
no place in the whole world. The memory of 
Jerry’s disloyalty and deceit, his neglect even to 
answer her letter, stung and humiliated her. Haras¬ 
sed and desperate, like a wounded animal seeking a 
place to hide, she rose to her feet and faced them all. 

“If it will make you happy-” she spoke with 

white lips, but her voice was firm, “Yes!” 


Chapter XXXIII 
“Boots and Saddles” 


HREATENED and harried by hidden foes, 



over mountain trails and through menacing 


canons, relay couriers rode from camp to 
camp, bearing messages which outlined the plans 
formulated by the new Department Commander. 

Captain Duncan glanced hastily over the order 
and expressed his satisfaction by an emphatic bang 
of his fist upon the table. His wife looked up in¬ 
quiringly. 

“This hits the nail on the head at last!” he ex¬ 
claimed. She laid aside her own letters and turned 
as he began to read, unconsciously assuming his 
official voice. 

Headquarters Department, Arizona, 


In the Field, Fort Bowie, A. T., 


UWJLCi, iV. X ., 

April 20,1886. 


General Field Orders No. 7 

The following instructions are issued for the information and 
guidance of troops serving in the southern portions of Arizona and 
New Mexico. 

The chief object of the troops will be to capture or destroy any 


230 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


band of hostile Apache Indians found in this section of the 
country, and to this end the most vigorous and persistent efforts 
will be required of all officers and soldiers until the object is 
accomplished. 

To better facilitate this duty and afford as far as practicable 
protection to the scattered settlements, the territory is sub¬ 
divided into Districts of Observation as shown upon maps fur¬ 
nished by the department engineer officer, and these will be 
placed under commanding officers to be hereafter designated. 

Each command will have a sufficient number of troops and the 
necessary transportation to thoroughly examine the district or 
country to which it is assigned, and will be expected to keep 
such section clear of hostile Indians. The signal detachments 
will be placed upon the highest peaks and prominent lookouts 
to discover any movements of Indians and to transmit messages 
between the different camps. 

The infantry will be used in hunting through the groups and 
ranges of mountains, the resorts of the Indians, occupying the 
important passes in the mountains, guarding supplies, etc. 

A sufficient number of reliable Indians will be used as auxiliar¬ 
ies to discover any signs of hostile Indians, and as trailers. 

The cavalry will be used in light scouting parties, with a suffi¬ 
cient force held in readiness at all times to make the most per¬ 
sistent and effective pursuit. 

To avoid any advantage the Indians may have by a relay of 
horses, where a troop or squadron commander is near the hostile 
Indians he will be justified in dismounting one half of his com¬ 
mand and selecting the lightest and best riders to make pursuit 
by the most vigorous forced marches, until the strength of all the 
animals of his command shall have been exhausted. 

In this way a command should, under a judicious leader, cap¬ 
ture a band of Indians or drive them from one hundred and fifty 
to two hundred miles in forty-eight hours through a country 
favourable for cavalry movements, and the horses will be trained 
for this purpose. 

All the commanding officers will make themselves thoroughly 
familiar with the sections of country under their charge and will 


“BOOTS AND SADDLES” 


231 


use every means to give timely information regarding the move¬ 
ments of hostile Indians to their superiors or others acting in 
concert with them in order that fresh troops may intercept the 
hostiles or take up the pursuit. 

Commanding officers are expected to continue a pursuit until 
capture, or until they are assured a fresh command is on the trail. 

All camps and movements of troops will be concealed as far as 
possible, and every effort will be made at all times by the troops 
to discover hostile Indians before being seen by them. 

To avoid ammunition getting into the hands of hostile Indians 
every cartridge will be rigidly accounted for, and when they are 
used in the field the empty shells will be effectually destroyed. 

Friendly relations will be encouraged between the troops and 
citizens of the country, and all facilities rendered for the prompt 
interchange of reliable information regarding the movements of 
hostile Indians. 

Field reports will be made on the tenth, twentieth, and thirtieth 
of each month, giving the exact location of troops and the 
strength and condition of commands. 

By command of Brigadier-General Miles. 

William A. Thompson, 

Captain Fourth Cavalry , A.A.A.G. 

Mrs. Duncan did not speak, but watched her 
husband pick up his pipe, light it, and then sit 
silently smoking. 

“You and Bonita had better go back to Grant 
the first of May/’ he said at last. 

The announcement did not surprise her. They 
had discussed such a possibility when it had become 
known that General Miles would take command of 
the department. The wedding of Roy and Bonita 
had been set for early September, and Roy’s applica¬ 
tion for leave had been granted. Captain Duncan, 


232 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


too, hoped to obtain permission to go to Grant for 
the ceremony. So the change of plans merely has¬ 
tened matters a few weeks. 

Mrs. Duncan and the captain had so happily 
entered into all the arrangements for the wedding 
that Bonita, whose resolution had failed many times, 
and whose heart had grown faint at the prospect of 
the marriage, could not bring herself to disappoint 
them and break her engagement. 

She wanted to remain in camp but apathetically 
resigned herself to any readjusting. Every detail 
had been planned by the captain’s wife, and the girl 
agreed docilely with each suggestion. The manager¬ 
ial spirit of Mrs. Duncan had decided that the two 
months’ trip to California should terminate in the 
young folks making their home with herself and the 
captain. Roy, being merely a junior second lieu¬ 
tenant, was entitled to only one room and a kitchen 
as a domicile. 

Apart from advantages to Roy and Bonita in com¬ 
fort, the lady pointed out, it would totally relieve the 
bride of any responsibilities of a home. Bonita, 
who had dreamed of a far different home with its 
sweet joys and happily accepted sacrifices, now made 
no protest as her future was arranged for her. She 
had no plans, no desires, often she compared herself 
to a leaf tossed to and fro on a swift current that in the 
end would drag her beneath its dark, rushing water. 
Numb as from many bruises, she helplessly drifted. 


“BOOTS AND SADDLES 


233 


One week in camp still remained when news was 
received that Geronimo, who had remained hidden, 
had again started his carnival of slaughter below the 
Mexican border. However, in emerging from ob¬ 
scurity he had given General Miles opportunity to 
strike without loss of time or waste of energy. 

The Department Commander, astute strategist 
that he was, concluded that the hostiles, heading 
north in Arizona, would probably work up through 
familiar trails in the heart of the Chiricahua Moun¬ 
tains. It was quite possible that they would en¬ 
deavour to reach the Apache Reservation to obtain 
recruits, supplies, and ammunition from friendly 
Indians. 

Troops in the vicinity of these trails were ordered 
out immediately to frustrate such plans, and within 
an hour after the order had reached Bonita Canon 
Captain Duncan and his troop were on the jump. 
No one could foretell how long they would be gone; 
but the officer impressed on his wife the necessity of 
carrying out the plans to return to Fort Grant on the 
first, whether the troops got back or not. 

The flaps of the empty tents had been tied down 
and the long shed that had stabled the troop mounts 
now sheltered one pack mule, which had been too 
sick to be used on the scout. Sergeant Faulkner had 
been left behind in charge of the camp property 
and to doctor the sick animal, as well as to keep an 
eye on the comfort of the women. 


£34 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

Evening came. Aunt Jane was clearing the 
supper table in the dining tent while Mrs. Duncan 
and Bonita lingered. A hand scratched at the tent 
flap, then lifted it, and Sergeant Faulkner appeared, 
campaign hat in hand. 

“’Evenin’, Mis’ Duncan,” he began hesitatingly. 
“Ah jes’ wuz cogitatin’ ’bout totin’ mah blankets up 
yeah into de kitchen tent fo’ de night, so’s Ah cou’d 
be neah if yo’ all needs me. Hit’s er moughty stiff 
step down to de camp an’ I’se a pow’ful soun’ 
sleepah, I is.” 

“We’ll be perfectly safe, Sergeant,” assured the 
captain’s wife, whose fear of danger had been 
minimized by her years of frontier hazards. “Aunt 
Jane is going to sleep in the house. You may carry 
her cot and mattress into the back room. If we 
need you in the night, one of us will fire the pistol.” 

“Yo’ go scuttle er long,” admonished Jane with 
superior mien and tone. “We all kin tek cay ah ob 
ourselves. Yo’ look out fo’ de mewel, dat’s all yo’ 
got ter tend ter.” 

Faulkner knew that protests would not avail, so 
he gave his attention to aiding Jane literally to take 
up her bed and walk. 

“Is deyah anythin’ else Ah kin do?” he asked, 
pausing in the front room and looking anxiously at 
Mrs. Duncan. 

“That is all.” 

But he still lingered as though reluctant to leave. 


“BOOTS AND SADDLES” 


235 


After some hesitation, during which the old soldier 
shifted from one foot to the other, he turned toward 
his captain’s wife an oddly appealing glance, as 
though he wished to convey to her mind something 
for which he had no words. 

Failing this, he drew a deep breath, straightened 
his bent shoulders, then resolutely went over to the 
table and laid his pistol and cartridge belt upon it. 

Mrs. Duncan understood the faithful old man’s 
anxiety for the safety of the women who were practi¬ 
cally in his care. 

“Why, Sergeant,” she smiled, “I have my pistol.” 

“ Yessum, Ah knows dat, ma’am. De capt’n, he’d 
see ter dat, but in dis yeah country whar dar’s—whar 
—whar dar’s rattlers an’ Gila monsters an’ cem- 
tumspeeds—yo’ cain’t hab too many guns!” 

Jane snorted audibly, Bonita laughed outright, 
and Mrs. Duncan said tolerantly, “We’ll be all 
right, Sergeant. You go and turn in.” 

He backed to the door, still hesitating, and went 
out. They saw his slouch hat as he passed the 
window, but he came back. 

“Miss Bonita,” he said, poking his gray head in at 
the door and looking at the girl, “when yo’ fiahs dat 
pistol, ol’ Faulkner’s suah gwineter cum a-runnin’!” 


Chapter XXXIV 
Where Geronimo Rode 

D ESPITE Sergeant Faulkner’s anxiety a week 
passed uneventfully in the camp after Cap¬ 
tain Duncan had ridden away at the head of 
his troop, and those who remained in Bonita Canon 
settled to a daily routine. 

Jane tended her chickens and bustled importantly 
about the cabin and household tents, Faulkner al¬ 
ternated attentions to the family with ministrations 
to the sick “mewel” which was showing symptoms 
of convalescence, and Mrs. Duncan found her usual 
occupation with her needle. Bonita, deprived of 
her daily ride, spent her time wandering about the 
canon, but out of deference to the fears of Mrs. 
Duncan and the two old Negroes, she kept within 
sight and hearing of the camp. 

Faulkner took his responsibilities much to heart, 
and Jane’s comments were caustic. 

“Mis’ Duncan,” she sniffed, leaning on her broom, 
“Faulkner’s gittin’ crazy in de haid. He min’s me 
ob de woman dat wuz alius huntin’ oP Man Trubble, 
an’ when she seen him cornin’ erlong de road, she 
236 


WHERE GERONIMO RODE 237 

cain’t wait fo’ him to git to de gate, but she done go 
scuttlin’ down de road to meet him. An’ den she 
cotch holt ob his han’ an’ drug him inter de house 
an’ sot him down by de stobe an’ gib him fry chicken 
an’ hoecake. An’ ol’ Man Trubble he sot dyah a- 
eatin’ an’ a-eatin’ ’twill he’s fit to bust. An’ dat fool 
nigger woman she’s suah he’s gwineter git up an’ git 
an’ neber come back no moah. But ol’ Man Trubble 
he squinch up hes eyes an’ says, ‘Mis’ Smiff, Ah 
wuzn’t projeckin’ none ter stop heyah, but yo’ 
treat me so fine I’se gwineter stay heyah right erlong 
wif yo’!’ An’he suah done hit.” 

Night, like a tender mother, spread her starry veil 
over the mountains, plains, and canons. 

Those in the cabin slept, and an old Negro soldier 
kept guard over them. His tired eyes closed often, 
but he did not sleep. 

After his one talk of possible danger from Apaches, 
he had not referred to the subject, but unknown to 
the women he had found a small, natural cave, the 
front of which was concealed from below by brush. 
Here, during the night hours, he had carried all the 
ammunition and extra guns, and he had not forgotten 
food and canteens of water. So long as the troop 
was absent, Faulkner determined to have this 
natural fortress ready. That accomplished, he had 
no further anxiety or responsibility, except to patrol 
the camp. Dawn was the danger time; and in those 
hours he doubled his watchfulness. Not a sound in 


£38 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

the quiet canon escaped his keen ears as he lay 
rolled in his blanket a short distance from the 
cabin. 

Jane wakened. A hand was tapping on her 
window. 

“Whut’s dat?” She was out of bed and by the 
window. 

Faulkner pressed his face against the pane. 

“’Paches!” he whispered hoarsely from outside. 
“Come quick! Fse got er place raidy fo’ yo’ all. 
Don’t bring nuffin’ but yo’ guns!” 

No need of further speech. Jane gave quiet 
warning. The three women hastily slipped into 
shoes and long coats and stepped cautiously outside, 
where Faulkner awaited them. He did not speak as 
he reached in, took the key, and locked the door 
after them. 

There was no light to illuminate the dark face of 
their guide as they followed him, testing each step 
that no loose rock might betray them, or outreaching 
brush snap noisily. 

In absolute silence they gained the cave, and one 
by one, guided by Faulkner’s hand, they crept 
through the narrow aperture. Breathlessly they 
crouched behind him, holding their firearms. His 
body formed a barricade between them and un¬ 
speakable danger. 

“Yip—yip—yip,” came the quavering call of a 
coyote—or was it an Apache? 


WHERE GERONIMO RODE 239 

Silence. Darkness. Minutes seemed hours. 

The ominous sound of unshod hoofs on slanting 
slate and the unmistakable rattle of fine gravel 
reached their strained ears. 

“They’re coming!” Bonita whispered. 

Mrs. Duncan touched her arm and patted it very 
gently. Jane pressed against the girl. 

“Sssh!” breathed Mrs. Duncan. Jane stiffened 
into stone. 

So they waited until dawn, like something gray 
with fear, crawled over the mountains and into the 
canon. 

The Apaches were in the camp. 

From his lookout, Faulkner in the half light could 
discern them looting the place noiselessly. His 
grim face relaxed. Maybe they would believe that 
the women had gone! So far as he knew, even 
in the hurried flight, they had left no sign by 
which the Indians might trace them to their hiding 
place. 

A wild yell broke the silence. 

Faulkner drew a slow, deep breath between his 
closed teeth. He knew that they had found a trail— 
a print of a woman’s foot among their own moccasin 
tracks. 

The soft breathing in back of him quickened. 

The grip of his black wrinkled hands tightened on 
the stock of his gun. His muscles bunched under his 
rough blue blouse. 


240 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


Like bloodhounds on a scent, the Apaches raced 
around the cabin and scattered in a wide semicircle. 
With heads bent, bodies forward, sinister, certain, 
they slipped silently between the boulders and con¬ 
verged toward the cave. 


Chapter XXXV 
A Black Hero 


R ES’ yo’ guns on mah shoulders. When Ah 
tells yo’—fiah!” 

- The women could not see, but they could 
hear the rocks that rolled down the canon as the 
Indians scrambled toward the cave. The tracks 
had indicated that there was only one man to pro¬ 
tect three women. This certainty made the Apaches 
less careful. The fugitives’ footprints became plainer 
as the Indians followed them. 

Two of the hostiles deployed higher up the canon’s 
side. They signalled back that the tracks had not 
gone beyond that point. 

Inside the cave Faulkner crouched like a statue 
carved from granite. Back of him waited the three 
women. Death hovered near. Death, but not cap¬ 
tivity. They all understood that. 

Outside the cave the leader of the Apaches, con¬ 
cealed by the thick brush, wriggled closer. A twig 
snapped. An ear-splitting crash from Faulkner’s 
gun deafened those inside. 

A puff of smoke. A death scream. 

Faulkner ejected a smoking shell from his gun. 

241 


242 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

“Ah got him,” he said quietly. 

“Let me fire,” Bonita spoke tensely. 

“Wait!” was his order. She obeyed. 

From that time on Faulkner’s gun spat defiance. 
Other guns barked back, and Apache bullets spurted 
dust as they struck against the rocks at the mouth 
of the cave, but so far the fortress had proved im¬ 
pregnable. 

“Gimme yo’ gun!” 

Bonita slipped her gun under his arm and dragged 
his smoking rifle back. The hot steel barrel burnt 
her flesh, but she did not know it. Immeasurable 
time seemed to pass, marked off by heavy heartbeats. 
The Apaches were saving their fire. Suspense 
coloured every moment. 

“If dey heyah us down ter Prue’s, somebody will 
come ter holp us,” Jane spoke hopefully. 

“There are no men there-” Bonita began. 

“Sssh! Dey’s a-comin’ in a bunch!” warned 
Faulkner. “Git raidy now and fiah wif me.” 

Steadily the three gun barrels pointed over the 
shoulders of the crouching Negro. Through the 
narrow entrance they could see the Indians gather¬ 
ing for the attack. On they dashed, yelling as they 
came—foot Indians—the most elusive infantry in the 
world. 

“Hold your fire,” Bonita said to herself. “Wait 
till you see the whites of their eyes,” came back to 
her memory. Her pulses steadied. 



A BLACK HERO 243 

Faulkner spoke under his breath: “Ready—Aim 
—Fiah!” 

The four guns crashed as one. The reverberation 
filled the cave. Smoke smarted in their nostrils. 

The Apaches broke for cover. 

Bonita was on her feet trembling with excitement. 
All fear was forgotten in her wild desire to run from 
the cave and fire again and again at the fleeing In¬ 
dians. But Faulkner’s voice centred her thoughts. 
He knew Apache stratagems too well to be de¬ 
ceived. 

“Dey’s gwineter try sneakin’. Lay low now.” 

Faulkner, the black sergeant, had become for the 
moment the calm commander. The army women 
waited for his word. His piercing glance swept 
every clump of grass, every shadow of a rock, but 
the canon appeared deserted of life. Not even a leaf 
stirred. 

A shower of gravel and small stones fell. The 
Indians were on the slope above the cave, dislodging 
large rocks. 

“ Gawd!” the word was moan and prayer as it fell 
from Faulkner’s lips. 

Down came the boulders. Only the hand of the 
Divine Engineer could divert them from closing up 
the entrance. Faulkner, from his place, saw a huge 
rock gaining velocity as it crashed down the side of 
the canon toward the cave. 

“Gawd!” 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


244 

As if in answer to his cry, the boulder struck a 
sapling, breaking it near the base. A screen of April 
green fell across the opening of the cave. 

The Indians gave a howl of rage, for the slender 
trunk of the young tree had fallen in such a way as to 
carry the stones away from the cave and down into 
the canon. 

But Apache ingenuity was not yet exhausted, and 
in a short interval blazing faggots fell in front of the 
aperture so that the smoke began to drift into the 
cave. 

“I’se gotter git out ob heyah,” the old man spoke. 
“ Ah kin hide in de rocks an 5 pick ’em off up deyah!” 
His bloodshot eyes met Mrs. Duncan’s. 

“If dey gits me, yo’ all keep on a-fightin’-he 

did not finish, but they knew that the pistol at which 
he glanced carried a bullet for each of them, if need 
be, at the last. 

Faulkner wormed his way from the cave and 
through the brush. Bonita moved to the entrance 
and sat in his place, cool and ready. She could see 
distinctly a quiet human form huddled between two 
rocks some distance down the canon. 

That had been an excellent shot. She felt a 
moment of pride over it. Her gun had been sighted 
at four hundred yards. 

The quiet now was ominous. 

A puff of smoke. Faulkner’s gun. Another 
shot! Another—another! 



A BLACK HERO 


245 


Then came a new sound. Galloping horses! 

Mrs. Duncan touched the girl’s shoulder. 

“That may be the troop,” she whispered with 
white lips, “or maybe-” 

The women strained forward. The sound came 
nearer and nearer. There was a clang of steel on the 
rocks. 

“Shod hoofs! Shod hoofs! Thank God! The 
soldiers!” sobbed Bonita. Her left hand flew to her 
throat, the gun slipped from her right hand down 
beside her. 

Mrs. Duncan crowded into the open space. 

“Jim!” she cried. 

Aunt Jane turned her black quivering face to 
Bonita, her old arms went around the slender figure 
and held it close to her breast. 

“Hit’s all right now, honey chile! De cap’n’s 
come!” 

And the captain had come. His quick glance 
saw the women as he passed—saw that they were 
safe; but he went on with his troop up the heights 
after the Apaches, firing as they rode. 

Faulkner stood on a rock beside their way, waving 
his arms and yelling cheers at the top of his quaver¬ 
ing voice. 

His captain paused a moment as he reached him 
and leaned down from the saddle. 

“Good work, Faulkner!” 

Then he rode on, and back of him Sergeant Faulk- 



246 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

ner stood with twitching face and tear-brimmed 
eyes. 

Squirming back of protecting boulders, slipping 
between clumps of tall saccatone grass, or lying 
motionless against the ground, the Apaches with 
wisps of grass about heads and shoulders evaded 
detection. 

Silently, invisibly, during the night they flitted 
like shadows away from Bonita Canon and across the 
broad Sulphur Springs Valley to the Dragoons, then 
over the San Pedro River they turned into the Santa 
Cruz Valley. 

In that valley was a ranch, where dwelt three men, 
a mother and her two children—one a babe in arms. 

Geronimo knew the Peck Ranch, and there he 
planned to stop. 

When he and his band mounted their ponies and 
went on their way again, there was a record written 
in blood for those to read who followed Geronimo’s 
crimson trail. 

Two ranch hands had made the fight of their lives 
to protect a woman and children—in vain. The 
mother had been tortured with indescribable fiend¬ 
ishness, while her husband, securely bound, had 
been forced to witness it all. Death was merciful to 
her. The tiny mangled form of the babe had been 
tossed across its mother’s body. 

The man who stood helplessly watching had 
cursed, prayed, and pleaded until something snapped 


A BLACK HERO 


247 


in his brain. Then he laughed and laughed. At 
that strange laughter the Apaches cautiously cut his 
thongs. Whom the Great Spirit has touched with 
madness the Apaches dare not harm. Geronimo and 
his followers rode hastily away, with fearsome glances 
backward. 

The man did not notice their going, nor did he 
hear the imploring cry of his twelve-year-old daughter, 
who, held firmly across a saddle, was being carried 
away by an Apache. 

Men who rode to the ruined home later saw the 
wandering trail of one man. It circled aimlessly 
around the outside of the ranch house, then led 
zigzagging here and there. When those who followed 
the footprints found him roving in the hills, he did 
not recognize friends who spoke to him with gentle 
voices and looked at him with pity. 

He laughed. And as he rode with them, he still 
laughed. God was merciful to him for those first 
few weeks. He laughed. Later he wept. 

And Geronimo kept on his way toward the border 
of Mexico, making for a range of mountains so wild, 
so rough, so inaccessible to white men or coloured 
soldiers, that he believed he would be safe. With his 
band was a little white girl. 

News of the murder of the Peck family and ranch 
hands spread over the territory by telegrams, by 
messages, by letters; and by those who met and 
talked for a space on lonely trail or road. 


248 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


The heliographs flashed the news to a man who 
made no comments, but his lips tightened as he 
watched the flashes of sunlight on small mirrors. 

Geronimo was heading for a network of concealed 
troops. The day of reckoning was drawing near. 


Chapter XXXVI 
Pacer 


H ALT!” 

Captain Kern’s command rang above the 
monotonous shuffle of the horses’ hoofs in the 
sand and the men drew rein. All of them watched a 
figure which had stepped suddenly into full view. 
It was an Apache scout. His uplifted hand held a 
red headband. 

Kern signalled reply and the scout approached with 
a peculiar gait that was at once swift and graceful. 

“It’s Pacer,” the captain spoke to his lieutenant. 
“No other Indian runs that way. Fastest runner 
among the scouts. He’s all right.” 

The Indian reached them and thrust his hand 
into a buckskin pouch which, with the inevitable 
Apache medicine-sack, hung from his belt. He 
handed several letters to Captain Kern. Stanley’s 
eyes were eager. Kern glanced at the envelopes and 
opened an official communication. 

The older officer was too intent to notice the keen 
disappointment in the face of Lieutenant Stanley, 
who sat on Tiswin’s back and stared at the barren, 


249 


250 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


sun-baked expanse. The sight of the Indian coming 
with the mail had wakened hope, but there was no 
letter from the girl he loved. 

Stanley’s intention of going to Camp Bonita as 
soon as the doctor would permit had been frustrated 
by urgent orders to proceed immediately with a de¬ 
tachment of scouts and patrol the border, and from 
that point he had been ordered to join his captain. 
Unable to see Bonita or in any way communicate 
with her, it seemed as though they were parted by 
the grave, but he knew that she understood and 
would be loyal to him. 

Kern, on his little buckskin pony, his long, thin 
legs swinging free from the stirrups, scowled at the 
official document in his hands and chewed the end 
of his faded yellow moustache. 

“Hell’s popping!” he spoke sharply, and read aloud 
the news of the Peck tragedy. “ They’ve got the little 
Peck girl. Geronimo and his whole bunch went right 
through Bonita Canon while Duncan and his troop 
were out scouting, then the Apaches cut over to the 
Santa Cruz Valley and attacked the Peck ranch.” 

“Did—was any one—in Camp Bonita?” Stan¬ 
ley’s lips framed the words with difficulty. 

Kern understood. “The family. There was a 
fight, but old Sergeant Faulkner stood off the 
Apaches and Duncan came back in the nick of time. 
I don’t see why the devil Duncan took those women 
out there, anyhow.” 


PACER 


251 


Stanley made no comment, but the hand that patted 
Tiswin’s neck was trembling. Even the desert tan 
could not hide the pallor of his face. The Apaches 
had captured the little Peck girl. What if it had 
been Bonita? Kern was right. Duncan had no 
business to take such chances. 

Forgotten by both officers, Pacer stood, a bit of 
living bronze. His head was held high and his face 
devoid of expression, its intelligence veiled by 
passivity. Only the closest observation could de¬ 
tect even his breathing. His magnificently muscled 
arms were folded across his broad chest. A loin¬ 
cloth was wrapped about his hips and flint-hide shoes 
tied with buckskin thongs covered his feet, which 
were unusually small even for an Apache. The red 
handkerchief he had replaced about his forehead 
confined his blue-black hair which fell straight and 
heavy to his shoulders. 

During the months in garrison and camp since his 
enlistment as a scout, Pacer had come to realize his 
position—a man who belonged neither to the white 
man’s race nor to that of the Apaches; something 
lower in grade than even the Negro soldiers, for 
each of them—Negro, Apache, and White—had his 
own place, but Pacer, the scout, had none. When 
his work was done he was a thing apart from all of 
their lives and ways. Bitterly he recalled his faith 
in Maco’s dreams. 

Pacer looked steadily in front of him. Not a quiver 


252 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


of a muscle betrayed the passion which gripped him, 
but he suddenly felt the shackles that had been 
welded upon him by the white man fall away. He 
drew a deep breath. 

The mountains were his heritage. Hidden in 
them he could, like Mangus, Geronimo, Cochise, and 
Natchez, live. He, too, was an Apache. His hand 
should be against every man. 

He heard his name and turned slowly toward the 
officers, who stopped talking, and awaited his ap¬ 
proach. 

4 ‘Pacer, you sabe American?” Kern fell into the 
Mexican-English jargon of the border. 

The Indian’s eyes were inscrutable. He nodded. 

“Bueno!” commented Kern. “You stay—guide 
us. Find water?” 

The Indian turned and surveyed the peaks that 
seemed to stretch endlessly north and south. He 
pointed where a deeper shade of purplish-blue on a 
slope indicated one of the thousands of canons that 
gashed the mountain range. As he looked at it his 
eyes lit fiercely. The soldiers would find water there, 
but he would find freedom. 

He glanced up at the sun and turned an impassive 
face toward the officers, holding up three fingers to 
indicate three hours’ travel. At a nod from the 
captain, the scout swung around and, leaning for¬ 
ward, ran lightly over the heavy sand. Though 
the cavalry horses followed at a brisk trot, the 


PACER 25& 

Indian, without apparent effort, kept well ahead of 
them. 

An hour before sunset Pacer led them to a spring 
that formed a silver ribbon edged with green. 

The camp cook—read this in capitals, for he is as 
important as the colonel and frequently much more 
popular—was getting his outfit in shape to prepare 
supper, while a detail of men dug mesquite roots for 
the fire. Everyone was ready to enjoy a hot cooked 
meal where the protecting walls of the canon per¬ 
mitted a campfire. They had ridden, with short 
intervals of rest, for two hundred and fifty miles 
with only raw rations and water from canteens in 
place of coffee for fear that smoke might warn the 
Apaches that troops were near. 

The horses, cared for and staked out with picket 
ropes, were cropping the green clumps near the 
spring. Many soldiers had flung themselves on 
the ground, talking and laughing like irresponsible 
children. 

Pacer stood apart. His eyes shifted impercepti¬ 
bly from group to group and finally rested on Lieu¬ 
tenant Stanley who was giving Tiswin a lump of 
sugar. Across the scout’s memory drifted the vision 
of a girl standing beneath a silver-roped tree, a star 
above her head, while her laughing eyes were raised 
to the face of a young officer. 

The Indian’s steady gaze, like a magnet, drew the 
glance of Lieutenant Stanley, and for a brief space 


254 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

each man strove to read the other man’s thoughts— 
in vain. A puzzled frown was on Stanley’s face as 
Pacer turned slowly away with indolent grace that 
savoured of insolence. The Indian stretched lazily 
on the ground, and rolling a cigarette, he watched the 
smoke-rings float away and dissolve. 

The cook lifted a large saucepan from the fire to 
adjust the mesquite clumps more evenly. The 
utensil dropped with a crash and the liquid contents 
hissed on the flames, while the cook leaped to his 
feet shaking his tingling hand and looked around with 
furiously blinking eyes. 

“Who—who—who done dat?” he stammered bel¬ 
ligerently. 

Shots answered him. 

Men scrambled to their feet. They knew that their 
first duty was to get their horses and protect them. 
No order was needed for that work. The jagged cliffs 
gave no sign of Indians but easily afforded shelter 
for enough to many times outnumber the troopers. 

The horses, though trained to the sound of fire¬ 
arms, lunged and reared, struggling against the 
ropes that held them. Some uncanny instinct told 
them that this was not drill. Nothing was visible 
to the soldiers who hastily scanned the cliffs except 
the boulder-strewn canon and the low-hanging 
Arizona sun that had shone on so many grim trag¬ 
edies of Apache warfare. But bullets from unseen 
guns spat with vicious rapidity and accurate aim. 


PACER 


255 


Corporal Owen reached for the iron picket pin 
while he held with his other hand the halter of his 
frightened horse. 

“Tepee, ain’t yo’ ’shamed ob you’self, lungin’ dat 
way lak yo’ neber heeard a gun in yo’ life, an’ yo’ 
a corporal’s hawse!” 

He freed the rope and leaped on Tepee’s back. 
The horse pranced as bullets kicked up puffs of dirt 

about his hoofs. “What-” Surprise was on 

Owen’s black face as he swayed and fell to the 
ground. The rope slipped from his relaxed hand 
and Tepee, with a shrill neigh, raced after the other 
horses which were galloping to the entrance of the 
canon. 

The old corporal tried to struggle to his feet but 
fell back moaning, “Dey done got me dat time.” 

He made an effort to drag himself to the shelter of a 
boulder, but the agony of his wound was too great. 
Half conscious, Owen knew that the captain had 
given orders to retreat from the cul-de-sac in which 
the troop had been trapped. Through pain-filmed 
eyes he saw his comrades pick up saddles and fire¬ 
arms and leap to the bare backs of their mounts, as 
obeying orders they raced toward the mouth of the 
canon. Some of them were carrying wounded or 
unmounted men. Then Owen’s eyes closed. 

Lieutenant Stanley, intent upon helping the 
wounded troopers to mount, had not noticed when 
Tiswin, wild with excitement, broke his picket rope 


256 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


and took his place at the head of the retreating troop. 
The young officer grasped the situation at the same 
moment that he realized the Apaches were making 
a target of him. Behind a rock he found shelter, 
but as he gained it he saw Owen making a vain 
attempt to drag himself to safety. The Apaches, 
too, understood the soldier’s desperate plight, and 
their bullets sang in fiendish, staccato glee as the 
Negro paused and weakly fumbled with a cartridge, 
then collapsed. 

Stanley dashed to his side. Owen looked up at 
him. 

“Neber min’ me, Lieutenant,” gasped the woun¬ 
ded man. “Doan’ let ’em git yo’!” 


Chapter XXXVII 

“Greater Love Hath no Man-” 

S TEADY, Corporal!” 

The old soldier’s eyes filled with tears—not 
tears of pain or fear. He could stand pain 
and he had never flinched from danger in twenty 
years’ service against the Indians. 

“Fo’ God’ sake, Lieutenant, git ter de troop. Ah 
cain’t git up. I’se plumb par’lyzed. Neber min’ 
me!” 

Both men knew that the bullets that fell so 
thickly now were not aimed at the Negro soldier. 

Then Owen felt hands thrust about his body and 
he was dragged upright on his hips, but his head 
sank forward and his eyelids closed. Sick with 
agony he heard a voice as though from a long dis¬ 
tance, speaking: “Put your arms about my neck and 
hang on.” 

Somehow, Corporal Owen obeyed that voice, but 
he did not know that he obeyed. 

Down the ravine the troop swept to the rescue. 
Howling, cursing, firing at rocks where a puff of 
smoke or Apache appeared. And riding at the front 
257 


258 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


of the troop, Captain Kern on his buckskin pony, 
stood high in his stirrups and yelled like an Apache 
gone mad. His yells and commands were punc¬ 
tuated by vivid oaths and his face was maniacal. 

“Damn the boy—I’ll court martial him for being 
such a fool! Lord, what pluck!” 

Twisting in his saddle he shouted back, “Ride, men! 
Ride like hell! What are you loafing for? Ready 
and Forward!” The familiar cry of many fights 
stirred their blood. 

And how they rode that day! Thundering hoofs, 
screams of rage, pistols cracking, like a black tornado 
they rushed through the narrow defile, each man 
ready to help form a human barricade with his body 
to protect the young officer who had risked his life 
for “ole man Owen”! 

Kern leaned down as he reached Stanley, and 
seeing that he was unharmed, waved for his men to 
follow the Apaches, who were already writhing 
snakelike between masses of yuccas or lying motion¬ 
less between the boulders. Each soldier began an 
individual search with pistol cocked for close fight¬ 
ing. 

Above them all on the canon’s side Captain 
Kern scanned the lower boulders for sign of hostiles, 
motioning or calling to the troopers. His keen 
eyes detected Pacer worming his way cautiously 
toward the hiding places of the hostiles. 

“By God! He led us into this!’’ 


“GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN-” 259 


Pistol in hand Kern spurred his pony to get within 
shooting range. 

“Get that scout!” he yelled. “He’s deserting!” 

Some of the men heard, but from their positions 
could not see Pacer as he writhed between two huge 
boulders. Kern raced nearer. A long shot, but 
he might make it. He lifted his pistol and cocked it; 
his eye squinted deliberately, but he did not pull the 
trigger. 

The glistening barrel of a gun protruded from the 
back of a boulder—the gun was aimed steadily at 
Stanley—only the tip of the barrel was visible. 

From the opposite side of the boulder Pacer arose, 
unarmed. With a stupendous bound the scout 
reached the gun and gripped it with both hands. 

Another Apache appeared in full view as both 
Indians struggled fiercely for possession of the rifle. 
One shot rang sharply. 

Pacer, holding the gun by its barrel, lifted it high, 
like a club, and brought it down with terrific force 
on the skull of the hostile Indian, who stumbled from 
the rocks, doubled convulsively, then stiffened out. 
His body shot forward and rolled swiftly down the 
side of the steep canon. 

Pacer stood erect. 

Captain Kern spurred over to him. 

But Pacer, like one who has run a hard race and 
lies down to rest, slipped slowly to the ground, and 
those who stood beside him with the captain un- 


260 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

derstood what the gaping wound in Pacer’s breast 
meant. 

The scout’s eyes, brilliant with agony, looked into 
Stanley’s face, and the bronze, muscular hand was 
pitifully feeble as it plucked at the sacred, beaded 
medicine sack. Kern understood and unfastened 
the pouch, but Pacer motioned toward Stanley. 

Captain Kern handed the bag to the young officer. 
“It’s hoddetin—their medicine. Some religious be¬ 
lief. I’ve seen it done. Put it on his forehead and 
chest for him.” 

As Lieutenant Stanley knelt beside the Indian 
and shook the sacred yellow powder from the sack 
into his own palm, a vague memory of childhood 
came to him. A quiet Sunday morning, a man in 
white vestments speaking—“Greater love hath no 
man than this, that he lay down his life for his 
friends.” Friends? 

Death sweat was gathering on the Indian’s fore¬ 
head as Stanley, very gently, placed a pinch of the 
pollen upon it. Then he laid the powder on the 
scout’s chest, near a spot where the blood ran in quick 
spurts from a bullet hole. 

Something like a faint smile was on Pacer’s lips 
as he pressed the little bag into the young officer’s 
hand. 

“Good medicine.” The words were faint and the 
scout’s massive chest rose and fell in rapid, laboured 
breathing. His eyelids closed wearily, then lifted. 


“ GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN 


” 261 


and the eyes, filmed by approaching death, looked 
past those who were gathered about him, and gazed 
steadily at the setting sun. 

With a final effort Pacer drew a deep, slow breath 
then clearly, almost triumphantly, he chanted the 
death song of his people. 

None of his own people were near. Even in that 
last moment Pacer was alone. But those of other 
races who heard knew that a passing soul was reach¬ 
ing out for its Creator, and in the Universe of the 
Great Unknown that cry of the dying scout would 
be understood. 

The last ray of sunset faded from the iridescent 
peaks, and with the fading light, Pacer’s soul went on 
its way, free from restraint or orders from any man. 

They wrapped him in a gray government blanket, 
and upon the canon’s side the soldiers dug a rude 
grave and laid him to rest. The bugler, stand¬ 
ing beside the open grave, lifted his bugle and the 
message of farewell—taps—echoed softly through 
the gathering stillness of night, as though unseen 
buglers were repeating the call; but the echoes 
mingled with the muffled thud of falling earth. 

Upon the newly made grave each trooper placed a 
stone, and every stone was a monument of honour— 
a tribute from the brave to the brave—from men to a 
man. 

Long after the weary men were sound asleep and 
only the sentinels on picket duty paced their beats, 


262 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


Kern, stretched on the ground a short distance from 
Stanley, propped himself up on an elbow and squin¬ 
ted through the dimness at his lieutenant. 

“By the way, Stanley, did you notice that those 
carbines we captured to-day all have pistol grips on 
the stocks ?” 

“Yes, I did.” 

“Well,” commented the captain with a dry 
chuckle, “do you happen to remember that Hat¬ 
field’s troop was the only one that had those guns 
at the time of the Guadaloup fight?” 

“Yes. They had just been issued to them to try 
out, I was told.” 

“Well, it’s a damned good joke on Hatfield. He’s 
been knocking the Negro soldiers’ work in the cam¬ 
paign. So I guess I’ll just notify him officially that 
if he will make out a requisition for the guns he lost at 
Guadaloup Canon, I will turn his property over to 
him!” 

Still chuckling, Captain Kern settled back to sleep. 

But Stanley, as he lay staring up at the stars, had a 
vision of a laughing girl beside a Christmas tree. 
A group of smiling black faces peered through a 
window, and back of them he saw the face of an 
Indian scout—Pacer—whose eyes were watching 
the girl by the tree; Pacer—whose eyes held the look 
of one who knelt at a shrine. 

And Stanley understood. 


Chapter XXXVIII 


“Checkmate!” 

M AY, June, and July passed by and August 
was almost gone when news came that 
Lawton and Wood had surprised Natchez 
and Geronimo on the Yaqui River in a location that 
was almost impassable. The Indians’ camp had 
been established on a flat beside the river bed, and 
high bluffs surrounded it except where the water cut 
through to form a channel. Cliffs towered two thou¬ 
sand feet, and below them dense canebrakes and 
immense boulders afforded additional protection to 
the hostiles against any sudden attack. 

Lawton’s conference with the other officers resulted 
in a plan to send scouts to close the upper approach 
through the river opening, while the infantry was to 
attack the camp from below. But one of the outlaw 
Apaches, catching a glimpse of the red headband of a 
crawling scout, gave alarm. 

Though the scouts fired on the stock of the Indians, 
the renegades escaped before the infantry could reach 
and block the north opening, as planned. 

Geronimo and his followers, glad to escape in 
263 


264 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


breech clouts and moccasins, abandoned their sup¬ 
plies, provisions, horses, guns, and ammunition, 
and evaded capture by their usual tactics. Later 
reports proved that the entire band had rounded 
south of the Yaqui River where they had captured a 
Mexican pack train which furnished them with food, 
horses, and munitions, after which they started north, 
pursued by the forces under Lawton and Wood. 

Captain Duncan’s troop, relieved from permanent 
duty at Bonita Canon, was in the field, and Roy had 
been assigned to Lawton’s command at his own 
request and with his father’s approval. 

So severe had been the work done by those under 
Lawton, that more than once it had been necessary 
to replace the officers. Only two men had been able 
to stand the terrific test of physical endurance, and 
those two were Captain Lawton and Doctor Leonard 
Wood. 

Sitting against a boulder in a canon devoid of 
vegetation, where the command halted for the 
night, Roy pencilled a letter to Bonita at Fort 
Grant, which read: 

Dearest Nita: 

"•Just after my last letter started to you things began to happen 
fast and furious. But the real news is that we got the little Peck 
girl, safe and sound, at last. 

The Apaches had carried her three hundred miles and we were 
after them as fast as we could travel. The hostiles ran into sixty 
or seventy Mexicans and had a fight. The Apache who held the 
child on his horse was wounded and the horse killed. The rest 


“ CHECKMATE! ” 


265 


of the hostiles vamoosed, but this one got behind his dead horse 
and stood off the entire band of Mexicans, killing seven of them. 
Each one got a bullet through the head. Some marksmanship, 
I say. 

Later, the same day, we got within six miles of them, almost 
close enough to fire, but it was too dark to be accurate. And the 
next morning a guide returned to us and reported a band of 
Mexicans ahead, so we had to be careful they should not mistake 
us for enemies. Finally Captain Lawton, Doctor Wood, and 
Lieutenant Finley pushed on afoot, and we followed more slowly. 
The Mexicans were glad to turn the little Peck girl over to Law- 
ton. So everyone is happy—especially the kid. It was an 
awful experience for a child, and it’s darned tough about the rest 
of her family. 

Now here is the very latest, and we are all taking off our caps to 
old Gatewood. One of our men is a Mexican, Jose Maria, who 
had been captive of the Apaches for seventeen years, so he knows 
their trails and speaks their jargon. Two of Geronimo’s women 
came to Jose’s shack on the outskirts of Fronteras, and told his 
wife that Geronimo wanted to see Gatewood and talk about sur¬ 
rendering. The hostiles evidently were well posted, for Gate- 
wood had only joined us ten days before on the Yaqui River. 

Anyway, Gatewood went to the hostile camp to size up the 
situation, but according to agreement he was to go alone and un¬ 
armed. Luckily he found Geronimo friendly. 

But meantime Captain Lawton, with our scouts, pressed ahead 
of our command, in order to be as near to Gatewood as possible, in 
case of treachery. Not one of us really expected to have Gate- 
wood return unharmed. We all knew as well as he did the risk he 
was taking in going alone and unarmed into the camp of Geron¬ 
imo and that bunch. 

At last he came back. But he was thoroughly discouraged. 
The hostiles had flatly refused to recognize him, even though 
they had sent for him themselves. Gatewood had no faith in 
any intention on their part to surrender. 

But Lawton insisted that the hostiles would not be hanging 
around so near our command unless they really intended to make 


266 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


definite overtures to surrender. Lawton was right. This morn¬ 
ing Geronimo, Natchez, and a dozen more bucks came into camp 
without warning. Geronimo dashed up to Lawton and flung his 
arms about the captain’s neck, hugging him as warmly as though 
they were David and Jonathan. 

I felt sorry for Lawton at that minute, but, by Jove! Nita, he 
never even blinked. He sure deserves a gold medal from Con¬ 
gress for standing a hug from Geronimo! So say we all. 

The entire bunch of hostiles are now camped only half a mile 
from us and have agreed to march with us to Skeleton Canon and 
meet General Miles at that point. Of course, Lawton has full 
authority from General Miles to accept Geronimo’s surrender, 
but Geronimo’s egotism and love for the spectacular make it 
necessary, in his own opinion, that no less personage than 
General Miles himself shall be tendered the surrender. 

Lawton is sending word to General Miles, and that is how I am 
getting a chance to write you. We all believe, and hope and pray, 
that the end of the campaign is in sight at last. 

Roy. 

While Lawton had been pressing after the Chiri- 
cahuas, General Miles had been perfecting other 
angles of his campaign, and letters, as well as tele¬ 
grams, had passed between Washington and Fort 
Bowie. 

The question as to the removal of all the Chiri- 
cahuas was the subject of a conference between 
President Cleveland and General Sheridan in Wash¬ 
ington; but the one thing upon which President 
Cleveland was emphatic was that when the Chiri- 
cahua Apaches were removed from Arizona Territory, 
not one of their tribe should remain there. 

With this understanding General Miles was given 


“ CHECKMATE! ” 


267 


full authority to round up and remove all the Chiri- 
cahuas from their native place. 

It was no easy problem. Part of the Chiricahuas 
had remained peacefully upon the reservation at 
Fort Apache, while the balance of the tribe roved at 
large. The least fiasco would result in those who 
were apparently peaceful becoming openly hostile 
and joining Geronimo. 

It was a civilian idea that if a body of Indians 
proved troublesome to one community, they should 
be moved to another. Simple enough! 

But all military men, rank and file, realized fully 
the gravity of such an undertaking at Fort Apache. 
This garrison was manned by troops of the Tenth 
Cavalry under the command of their lieutenant- 
colonel, James Franklin Wade. It was a hundred 
miles from any settlement and located in the heart 
of the wildest mountains. The least bungling of 
plans would mean more Apaches on the warpath— 
fresh reinforcements for Geronimo. 

Sunday morning after inspection was selected as 
time for the round-up, for the Apaches then would 
assemble on the parade ground to be counted. 

The troops, apparently drilling, manoeuvred into a 
position surrounding the Indians, who were abso¬ 
lutely surprised and unprepared to resist. They 
leaped to their feet, but even before their wily minds 
had devised a stratagem. Colonel Wade walked down 
among them, and demanded their surrender. 


268 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

Not a shot was fired. The Apaches laid down 
their arms. 

Rut it was not until that moment that the danger 
of a general massacre of the whites was averted. 

The closing scene of this, one of the most tremen¬ 
dous epics of American history, was accompanied 
by a sudden and terrific storm—the worst ever 
known in that section. 

Thunder crashed and reverberated again and 
again in the mountains; blades of lightning slashed 
the sky; guards and captives alike bent under the 
beating torrent; but one figure stood erect. A 
white-haired Apache stood with wrinkled face up¬ 
turned to the storm. His thin arms were held toward 
the hidden sky, and in a lull of thunder his quaver¬ 
ing voice rose in a cry of despair: 

“The Great Spirit weeps! His children are cap¬ 
tives!” The lean arms fell slowly, the white head 
bowed, and an answering wail from the other prison¬ 
ers blended with the rolling thunder. 

This American drama had its comedy part. The 
officers’ wives, who had watched from their porches, 
uncertain of the outcome and knowing the danger to 
their husbands, their children, and themselves, were 
recalled to prosaic matters by the storm, and has¬ 
tened to grapple with the perennial problem of army 
housewives in frontier garrisons of those days, a prob¬ 
lem as involved as that of any itinerant Methodist 
preacher’s wife. They needed as much strategic 


“ CHECKMATE! ” 


269 


ability to manoeuvre wooden washtubs in order to 
circumvent leaky roofs, as their husbands needed to 
overcome the hostile Apaches. 

All told, it was a busy day at Fort Apache as 
they mopped up the hostiles and the houses. But the 
part the women played was not on official reports. 

Knowing that Colonel Wade had the situation in 
hand at Fort Apache, General Miles gave his atten¬ 
tion to the final move against Geronimo, and in 
response to Lawton’s message, started to the place 
of meeting. The first day’s ride terminated at 
Rucker Canon, where the gallant young son of 
General Rucker, Lieutenant John Anthony Rucker, 
had been drowned in a cloudburst while scouting 
with his troop of the Sixth Cavalry. The second 
day’s travel brought the Department Commander 
to another tragic spot, Skeleton Canon—for no 
man ever identified the white bones lying there—a 
place well known to the Apaches. This historic 
location would be described by a cowpuncher as 
“heading up Stein’s Pass Mountains and running 
west into San Simon Valley; south of Rucker Canon 
and about sixty-five miles south of Fort Bowie on the 
San Simon side; near the San Bernardino Ranch.” 

General Miles had barely reached the place when 
Geronimo entered Lawton’s camp. It was a dra¬ 
matic meeting of the two men who had played against 
each other the great game of civilization against 
savagery. Geronimo strode forward until he was 


270 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

face to face with the Department Commander. 
The Apache war chief was a reader of men’s faces, 
and as he looked at the keen, dark-blue eyes of his 
conqueror, Geronimo knew that he faced a man who 
would dictate terms, not accept them. 

Though the Chiricahua leader realized this, he 
bade the interpreter make an offer of surrender 
under identically the same terms which had been ac¬ 
cepted by General Crook. He was prepared for a 
refusal, but not for the calm reply which was re¬ 
peated, word for word, by the interpreter. 

“Why should you wish to go back to Fort 
Apache?” 

“My people are there,” answered Geronimo, buoyed 
by the hope that the request might be granted. 

“None of your people are at Fort Apache.” Miles 
spoke again. “They have been sent over a long 
trail to another country. They will never come 
back. You and your band are all who are left. 
You have murdered, stolen, and you have broken all 
your promises. That is why the Great Father in 
Washington has said that no Chiricahua Apache 
shall be allowed to remain in Arizona!” 

As the interpreter spoke the words Geronimo’s 
head sank on his chest. He understood fully in 
that moment that his ambition and treachery had 
ruined his entire tribe. When he raised his head 
there was no defiance in his look. The Apache leader 
who had never granted mercy to the helpless knew 


“CHECKMATE!” 


271 


that he deserved none. His shoulders sagged, the 
shrewd gleam faded from his eyes. 

“Spare our lives,” he pleaded, “and we will do 
whatever you say!” 

General Miles stooped and took three pebbles 
which he arranged apart upon the ground, then he 
moved them until all were together. 

Geronimo nodded. He understood that the scat¬ 
tered bands of his tribe were destined to meet at a 
given point. 

“I will bring in the others,” he announced to the 
interpreter. 

So he rode away, and true to his pledge he returned 
the next morning accompanied by the rest of the 
band. But Natchez was not with them. 

Patiently the Department Commander, through the 
interpreter, explained to the Apaches the uselessness 
of attempting to combat the soldiers who had the 
advantage of railroads, of telegraph, and of the 
heliographs. Geronimo listened incredulously until 
a demonstration of the heliograph convinced him that 
these things had made the flashes which he and the 
other Chiricahuas had seen on distant mountain 
heights and which they had ascribed to spirits. 
Now that he realized their true origin and purport, 
he grasped their importance in Apache warfare—an 
enemy with which the Chiricahuas could not cope. 

He turned to one of his warriors and spoke ear- 
aestly, and the man to whom he spoke walked 


272 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


quickly to where he had staked his pony. General 
Miles watched the Indian leap to the animal’s back 
and ride hastily away toward the mountains from 
which the Apaches had come. 

“What did Geronimo say to him?” the Depart¬ 
ment Commander inquired of the interpreter. 

“Geronimo told him to go tell Natchez that there 
was a power here which he could not understand, and 
to come in, and come quick!” 

Anxiously the officers waited. An hour passed—a 
second hour—and the third hour was almost spent 
when over the top of the mountain appeared a 
cavalcade. Natchez rode at its head. Behind 
him followed his entire band of warriors with their 
families and camp paraphernalia. 

They reached the camp and dismounted. 

Natchez, still conscious of his dignity as hereditary 
chief of the Chiricahua Apaches and son of the great 
Cochise, moved deliberately forward to meet his 
conqueror face to face and surrender. 

Back of Natchez stood Geronimo; a crushed and 
broken old man. 

Four times had he surrendered, but at that moment 
he realized that he had made and lost his last fight. 

The trail over which the Chiricahua Apache tribe 
had ridden unchecked for three hundred years was 
wiped out forever, while they themselves were now 
doomed to depart from their native haunts, never to 
return. 



Chapter XXXIX 
The Split Trail 

P AND down, back and forth, far and near 



flew the shuttle in the hand of Destiny. 


^ Sometimes a thread of the great web seemed 
to snap, but with infinite patience the ends were 
woven together again. 

Mangus was making desperate effort to reach Fort 
Apache and his trail down in Mexico was being hotly 
pursued by relays of commands, crossing and re¬ 
crossing each other in divers directions. All were 
eager to gain the distinction of capturing Mangus. 

Great was the elation of Kern’s command when 
they “cut sign” of twenty Apaches whose trail was 
fresh. Filled with new energy they followed until 
the trail split and darkness overtook them. The 
entire section was new to Kern, and after a supper of 
issue bacon, hardtack, and coffee, he sat talking with 
his lieutenant. 

Since the encounter with the hostiles the two 
officers, in spite of the difference in their years and 
experience as soldiers, had been on very informal 
terms, and a deep friendship was developing. 


274 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


“I have an idea that the two bunches of hostiles 
are going to join forces at some point west of here. 
The best move will be to split the troop. You can 
take Pancho. I was told that the Apaches did not 
work so far west as this,” commented Kern, puffing 
on his pipe. “None of our field maps touch this 
section and settlements are as scarce as hen’s teeth. 
We are on the edge of the Sonora Desert. Someone 
called it the Maw of Hell, and that just about 
describes it.” 

The two officers glanced up as a stoop-shouldered 
Mexican slouched across the camp and hobbled his 
scrawny palomino pony, whose buckskin coat and 
dirty white tail and mane harmonized with its pecu¬ 
liar light eyes. 

“I don’t like that fellow,” spoke Kern. “But he 
was the only guide around. Too bad about Pacer. 
Well, this chap evidently knows the country, and he 
will have to find water for himself, unless he’s a 
camel.” 

“Self-preservation will make Pancho and myself 
Siamese twins,” commented Stanley lightly as he 
rolled his blouse in the hollow of his saddle for a 
pillow. “Oh, by the way. Captain, did you ever 
hear how some jokers filled up the temperance one 
of those twin chaps—I don’t remember whether it 
was Chang or Eng—with soda, and the other with 
whisky straight, and got them both gloriously 
drunk?” 


THE SPLIT TRAIL 


275 


Kern was still chuckling when Stanley stretched 
on the sand and laid his head on the “cavalryman’s 
pillow,” watching his commanding officer make 
similar preparations for the night’s rest on the edge 
of the Sonora Desert. 

But the younger man did not sleep. He lay star¬ 
ing up at the stars, hoping that the speedy cap¬ 
ture of Mangus might end the Geronimo campaign 
and let the troops return to their garrisons. If he 
could go back knowing that he had helped capture 
Mangus- 

He knew that it would make no difference to 
Bonita, but he wanted to do something worthy of 
his troop and of the regiment, and above all some¬ 
thing worthy of her. 

“If we can capture Mangus it will be a proud day 
for the regiment, and a prouder day for our own 
troop,” said Kern the next morning, standing be¬ 
side Lieutenant Stanley, who, mounted on Tiswin, 
was ready to start on the split trail. 

“I’ll do my very best, sir.” 

“I know you will, my boy. Follow General 
Miles’s orders to the letter. If the trail holds out 
and you find yourself near the hostiles, push on with¬ 
out regard to anything else.” 

“Anything more, Captain?” 

“Our reports must be in Bowie by the tenth, you 
know. Keep that date in mind—the tenth.” 

“And if the trail peters out?” 


276 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


“Go to Sasabe, or send word by courier where I 
can connect up with you best.” 

Kern’s voice was lowered, “Don’t trust that 
greaser too far. We’re in Mexico now. He may be 
all right and he may not. Good-bye, Jerry, and good 
luck. I’d rather have you catch Mangus than do it 
myself! I’m trusting you with the honour of the 
troop, and I’m not afraid to do it, by Jove!” 

The eyes of the two men met. In that glance was 
the look of father and son, not commanding officer 
and subaltern. Their gripped hands parted, but 
Stanley held Tiswin back. 

“ Good-bye, Captain. You’ve been mighty fine to 
me, and I’ll do my best to make good!” 

The rattling of accoutrements, the creaking of 
saddle-leather, the champing of bits, then a cloud of 
fine white dust told that the detachment was on its 
way. 

Captain Kern mounted his buckskin pony while 
the balance of the troop awaited his order to march. 
But when he did so, he twisted in his saddle to 
squint back where the cloud of alkali dust was grow¬ 
ing rapidly more indistinct. 

“What a damned old fool I’ve been all these 
years!” he growled. “Thought I was so smart sav¬ 
ing up my pay by not marrying, and now that I’m 
ready to retire for old age, every time I look at that 
boy I know how I’ve cheated myself.” 


Chapter XL 
Mangus, the Big One 


T HE tenth of the month came and went. 

But there was no report from Lieutenant 
Stanley’s detachment, nor was there any word 
by courier at Sasabe. 

Kern’s anxiety increased when he learned that 
authentic reports showed that Mangus was not in 
Mexico but had dashed over the border from west- 
tern Mexico and was riding the Apache trails of 
northern Arizona, while the heliographs flashed the 
news to all the troops in that vicinity. 

The silence of Stanley could mean but one of two 
things, either of which would be equally serious: 
the detachment might be lost on the Sonora Desert 
without food or water, or it might have been sur¬ 
prised and wiped out of existence by the Apaches in 
their flight. 

Arizona and the bordering sections breathed more 
freely when the two trains bearing Geronimo and also 
the Chiricahuas from Fort Apache met on the trip 
which was destined to end at Fort Marion, Florida. 
There the entire band of Chiricahua Apaches were to 
be held as permanent prisoners of war. 

277 


£78 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


But by that inexplicable method of communica¬ 
tion, known unofficially in army circles as the 
“grapevine telegraph,” it was rumoured that Presi¬ 
dent Cleveland and General Sheridan were far from 
satisfied with conditions and did not consider the 
campaign a success so long as Mangus and his band 
were still at large. 

A letter written the latter part of August by 
General Sheridan to General Miles had stated that 
the President’s only hesitation to the plan of ship¬ 
ping the Chiricahuas to Fort Marion arose “from his 
desire to be assured by General Miles that all of this 
dangerous band could be secured and successfully 
conveyed away; for if a few should escape and take 
to the warpath the results would be altogether too 
serious.” 

And Mangus was still at large. 

This knowledge created intense rivalry, not only 
between the different regiments engaged in the 
campaign, but even between troops of the same 
regiment. Each one hoped to have the honour of 
capturing Mangus and thus actually terminating 
for all time the problem of warfare against the 
Chiricahua Apaches, who had been a constant men¬ 
ace for thirty years. 

Mangus, unaware of the fate that had befallen 
Geronimo, Natchez, and also the Chiricahuas at 
Fort Apache who had not joined the war party, 
headed for his native haunts near that garrison. 


279 


MANGUS, THE BIG ONE 

He hoped to find temporary asylum and succour 
among the members of his tribe, whose age or 
weakness had caused them to remain on the reserva¬ 
tion at the time of the outbreak. 

His face was careworn and haggard, for Mangus 
realized that his ponies were footsore and weary, 
supplies of food could not be replenished without risk 
of encounter with large forces of soldiers, and game 
was scarce. What cartridges still remained were too 
valuable to be used except in dire necessity, and the 
firing of a single shot might mean annihilation of 
all those who had followed him so loyally. 

As he reached the peak of a mountain which they 
had scaled laboriously, the Apache chief lifted a pair 
of field glasses. They were excellent glasses of a 
fine French make and the filed mark enabled instant 
focussing to suit his vision. Circling his pony 
slowly, Mangus surveyed the adjacent peaks. 

Nothing moved except shadows of passing clouds 
and an eagle silhouetted against the sky. 

Carefully Mangus studied the canons that gutted 
the mountain slopes. Trees formed natural parks 
and small streams flashed in the bright sunlight. Up 
from the canons, tall and straight like a marching 
army at rest, rose stately pines. As he gazed at it 
all, tales of the wickiup and campfire and open trail 
were in his mind. 

For so many moons that no one could now count 
this had been the home of his forefathers. Doggedly 


£80 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


they had fought to hold it from many who had tried 
to wrest it from them. Far, far back there had been 
strange men who had worn metal clothes. But 
they had soon gone away and had never returned. 
There were strange patterns copied even now on 
many pieces of pottery and woven in beads, and of 
these the squaws related vague stories to the children; 
there were immense ruined walls of houses near the 
Pima and Maricopa reservations, which had been 
built by some unknown vanished race. They had 
come and gone, but the Chiricahua Apaches had 
remained unconquered. 

Inch by inch they had fought for more than three 
hundred years. Inch by inch the white men had 
encroached, through Mexico on the south and from 
some unknown place toward the morning sun. The 
white men had built towns, made roads of shining 
steel, stretched wires that talked across lonely 
places, had brought cattle to eat the grass that be¬ 
longed to the Apache ponies, and had killed the 
antelope, deer, wild turkeys, and quail that the 
Great Spirit had given the Apaches for food. 

Slowly the glasses were moved from tip to tip of 
the high range. The pony circled. Then to be sure 
that nothing had been overlooked, Mangus once 
more scanned the entire country. 

His body became rigid. The powerful glasses 
revealed a man sitting on a horse, and that man’s 
field glasses were focussed on the Apache chief. 


281 


MANGUS, THE BIG ONE 

Mangus could see yellow stripes on the man’s 
dark-blue trousers, and the riders back of the man 
had black faces. The sunlight glinted on gun- 
barrels. Mangus counted them. Then he whirled 
his pony and signalled his followers. 

The Apaches raced down the steep declivity, and 
back of them, from the opposite mountain peak, 
scrambled a detachment of twenty Negro soldiers of 
H Troop, Tenth Cavalry. They had not needed the 
incentive of their captain’s shout, “Don’t stop for 
anything! We must get them! It’s Mangus!” 

Over peak after peak of a range that rose two 
thousand feet from its base, the grilling pace was 
kept. 

A mule with its canvas-covered pack slipped on 
the narrow foothold of the unbroken trail. It rolled 
a short distance downward, then as though impelled 
by a great, invisible hand, it was flung out from the 
ledge, turning and twisting like a brown-and-white 
striped ball, until it crashed to the bottom of the 
rocky canon far below. At any moment the same 
fate might befall the men who rode that trail. 

No one spoke. Horses panted heavily, men’s 
breaths came in quick gasps in the dry altitude. 
They understood that if Mangus should elude them 
now and learn that Geronimo and all the other 
Chiricahuas had been banished, the lives of many 
settlers would pay the toll of the Apaches’ vengeance. 

One thought was written on each grim black face: 


282 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

“We must get them. Not one must escape! For 
the honour of the regiment—the honour of the 
troop!” Then it was “Ready and Forward!” The 
slogan of the Tenth. 

Their eyes strained after the desperately fleeing 
Chiricahuas, whose ponies climbed those terrific 
mountain-sides only to slide and slip down the next 
treacherous slope by the time the soldiers had gained 
the top. The Indian ponies, bred to mountain 
trails, were light and sure-footed as wild goats; the 
cavalry horses were heavy and more accustomed to 
working on the flats; but the ponies had been without 
rest for many moons and had fed on scanty wisps of 
dry, wild grass. The frogs of their unshod feet were 
tender and torn where rocks had worn their hoofs to 
the quick, so they stumbled at each step. The pace 
was telling cruelly on them. 

For fifteen miles, over five precipitous mountains 
that were almost impossible to scale, the mad race 
was maintained. Ahead of the worn-out Apaches 
and all around them rose other similar mountains 
in seemingly endless repetition. No place offered 
asylum. 

Mangus knew that the ponies must be sacrificed 
to save his band. His order to abandon the ponies 
and seek safety in rugged crags was obeyed at once, 
and the triumphant shouts of the troopers told 
Mangus that the pursuers recognized the Apaches’ 
serious predicament. 


283 


MANGUS, THE BIG ONE 

The cheers still sounded as the Chiricahuas 
squirmed between huge boulders and clumps of tall, 
dry grass. Some of the Indians snatched grass and 
bits of brush which they twisted deftly about heads 
and shoulders until it was almost impossible to de¬ 
tect them as they waited, expecting that the troopers 
might be over-confident and ride within range of 
concealed Chiricahuas. 

Lying hidden they could not see the officer in 
command halt the soldiers, who dismounted cau¬ 
tiously. Two guards held the cavalry horses. The 
rest of the men separated, and flat on the ground, 
they, too, writhed out of sight between the boulders. 

“Each man pick an Indian and keep after that 
one. Don’t let a single Apache escape!” 

That had been their captain’s whispered order, 
and as he lost sight of the last of his men, he knew 
that they would obey or die in the effort. 

Then he dropped to the ground and wormed his 
way through the thick brush. 


Chapter XLI 

The Last of the Chiricahua Apaches 

W HILE the Indians waited, watching the 
point where they expected the troopers 
would appear, the soldiers, lying flat on the 
ground, writhed slowly nearer along a point just 
above the Apaches. There was a sudden rush, and 
the Chiricahuas, taken completely by surprise, 
leaped to their feet and fled. 

One by one the soldiers met them, and one by one 
the Negroes fought and held the Apaches until only 
one Indian had escaped. 

But that one was Chief Mangus. 

Ensconced between projecting rocks which pre¬ 
vented any attempt to dislodge or disable him, he 
was in a position to hold the soldiers at bay so long 
as he had food and ammunition. To rush his im¬ 
pregnable position would result only in unneces¬ 
sary deaths of soldiers with no possibility of gaining 
uny advantage. So while part of the detachment 
watched Mangus’s hiding place, the rest of the men 
-continued the chase, which had its humorous aspect. 
A squaw, racing as fast as her horny feet could 
284 


LAST OF CHIRICAHUA APACHES 285 


scurry, had, like Lot’s wife, turned to look back. 
She had failed to observe a small pool of water. 
Two soldiers rescued her gasping and spluttering 
from the involuntary bath. A latent sense of 
humour caused her toothless mouth to expand into a 
responsive grin at the laughter of her captors. 
Meanwhile, another squaw, more observant of the 
scenery, had shoved herself bodily into a hole bur¬ 
rowed by some wild animal, where ostrich wisdom 
made her believe she was completely concealed. 
Achilles’s heel proved his undoing. The soldier who- 
scrutinized a wriggling object which protruded from 
solid earth had never heard of the Greek hero. 
Nevertheless, he stooped and grasped a muscular 
ankle. Then, despite vigorous kicks and struggles 
accompanied by muffled squeals from the interior of 
the burrow, the squaw was dragged into full view. 

The soldiers’ guffaws met her ears as she sat up and 
blinked about her, until she spied the dripping 
figure of the other squaw. A few guttural words 
were exchanged by the sisters in captivity, then both 
of them rolled on the ground in paroxysms of un¬ 
controllable mirth, in which those who guarded 
them joined spontaneously. 

After the “round-up” had been completed, tally 
taken, and the excitement had subsided, soldiers and 
captives sat amicably side by side enjoying a hot 
supper, which no doubt was observed by Mangus 
from his point of vantage. Mangus was without food. 


286 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


When Captain Cooper ascertained that condition, 
he dispatched a squaw advising Mangus to surren¬ 
der, as it would be useless for him to attempt escape, 
and that the soldiers would camp where they were 
until he surrendered or died. 

The woman returned, asking that food and to¬ 
bacco be sent to Mangus. It was given her. She 
did not come back that night. 

Through the night the guard was doubly vigilant, 
but dawn was a relief, and at dawn they saw the 
woman on her way to camp. 

“Mangus says if the captain will send all his 
soldiers away and wait here in camp, alone and 
unarmed, he will come to talk.” 

It was a critical moment. No one but Mangus 
could tell whether the proposition were a trap or 
made in good faith. To refuse the risk would incur 
possibility of losing Mangus, the Big One, and give 
good grounds for accusations of cowardice against 
the officer and his men. To accept meant sacrifice of 
the captain’s life should Mangus meditate treachery. 

Though the officer and every man of his detach¬ 
ment fully understood the chances, all of them 
knew that there was only one thing to be done, and 
that thing was to agree to Mangus’s terms. 

Reluctantly the soldiers obeyed the order to 
mount and ride away with their captives. Ser¬ 
geant Casey elbowed Trumpeter Jones and leaned 
low to tighten the saddle of his own horse: 


LAST OF CHIRICAHUA APACHES 287 

“Be slow!” he did not move his lips as he breathed 
the words to Jones. “Keep yo’ eye peeled. If Man- 
gus gits de cap’n, yo’ git Mangus. Dat’s all.” 

Casey swung on to his horse’s back and rode off 
at the head of the soldiers and Apaches. He gave 
a grunt of relief as he glanced back and saw Trumpe¬ 
ter Jones lingering, apparently unable to adjust his 
stirrup strap, while his big white horse pawed the 
ground and whinnied after the disappearing troopers. 

Jones was not too busy with the strap to scrutinize 
different approaches to the campfire. His gun was 
in its scabbard, but not buckled according to regula¬ 
tion. Jones was deliberately violating orders and reg¬ 
ulations. It was a very obstreperous stirrup strap. 

“Jones!” 

“Yes, sah, cap’n.” 

“Never mind that strap.” 

“Yes, sah, cap’n!” 

Jones rode off, wishing he had eyes in the back of 
his woolly head. But he rode very, very slowly, 
and when he was hidden from the officer’s view be¬ 
hind a huge boulder, Trumpeter Jones again dis¬ 
obeyed orders and halted. Flat on his stomach he 
lay, his bridle rein caught in his crooked arm, and his 
eye squinted along the barrel of his gun. Jones held 
the record among the sharpshooters in the regiment. 

His hand was steady now. 

He saw his captain lean down to the campfire and 
lift a live coal from the smouldering oak log to the 


288 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


bowl of his pipe. After drawing a few long puffs, he 
dropped the coal into the embers and rose to his feet. 

As he rose, somewhere, apparently from the solid 
earth, an Indian confronted him. Of equal height, 
shoulders the same width, face to face they stood and 
looked unflinchingly into each other’s eyes. 

Jones gripped his carbine more tightly, for his 
captain’s hands were empty, the closely buttoned 
blouse proved that no pistol was concealed. A 
blanket was wrapped about the form of the Apache 
Chief and between the folds of that blanket protruded 
the barrel of a gun. 

Not a sound broke the silence. Face to face they 
stood for a few seconds. Then with a quick move¬ 
ment Mangus laid his gun at the feet of the officer. 

Rising full height the Chiricahua Chief threw 
back his blanket and held out his two hands. The 
officer grasped them. Then without speaking one 
word, they sat down together before the campfire 
and smoked. 

It was Mangus who finally broke the silence, speak¬ 
ing in fluent Spanish, “You are a great Nan-tan—a 
better soldier than I am. You are a brave man— 
you kept your promise. I am not ashamed to sur¬ 
render to you, but it humiliates me to be a prisoner. 
Will you grant me one thing?” 

“What is it?” 

“Let me ride beside you to Fort Apache, not as 
one of the prisoners among your men?” 


LAST OF CHIRICAHUA APACHES 289 


“Yes,” was the hearty response, “we will ride side 
by side.” 

And so Mangus, the Big One, the last Chiricahua 
Apache Chief in Arizona, rode the trails that his 
tribe had ridden unrestrained, unconquered for 
generations past. He knew that never again would 
a Chiricahua travel those mountains, for the officer 
had told him of Natchez and Geronimo; and Mangus 
understood that with himself would depart the last 
of his race from the land of his forefathers. But his 
head was held proudly and his eyes looked straight 
ahead as Mangus, the last Chief of the Chiricahua 
Apaches, rode into Fort Apache—rode as a chief 
should ride—beside his conqueror, not back of him. 

The military wires clicked off a message to General 
Miles in Washington. A message that lifted the 
heavy burden of responsibility he had borne without 
shrinking even in the face of unjust criticism. There 
was no sign of triumph in his eyes or voice as he 
held out the telegram to General Sheridan in the 
War Office. 

Sheridan read: 


Fort Apache, October 19, 1886. 

Chief Mangus captured by Captain Charles L. Cooper, Tenth 
Cavalry, after five days’ hard chase. Unconditional surrender. 
Arrangements being made to transport entire band to Florida, 
probably October thirtieth. 

J. F. Wade, 

Lieut-Colonel, Commanding . 


290 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


The Commanding General of the Army stood up 
and held out his hand. 

“General Miles, in the name of President Cleve¬ 
land and of the United States of America, I con¬ 
gratulate you upon the successful termination of 
the Geronimo Campaign! This will end the Apache 
troubles in Arizona.” 


Chapter XLII 
The Lost Troop 


U NAWARE of the capture of the last Chiri- 
cahua Apaches, Lieutenant Stanley, followed 
by the lightest and best riders of the troop, 
stuck doggedly to the split trail. At times it scat¬ 
tered, then again converged; often it was entirely 
lost in soft, shifting sand, but Pancho, like a blood¬ 
hound, picked it up. 

The section in which the detachment travelled was 
below the Mexican border and southwest of Sasabe. 
Sand draws between hillocks, dotted at rare in¬ 
tervals by scrubby mesquite and sparsely growing 
salt grass devoid of any nutriment and as tough as 
wire, formed the landscape. 

Far away to the west lay a range of mountains 
and around the riders was a desolate stretch of arid 
land. This barren waste started southwest of 
Tucson and continued down and below the Mexican 
border through the greater part of the State of 
Sonora and was known as the Sonora Desert. 

Camp had been made at a small, half-dried lake 
of stagnant water, but Pancho had assured Stanley 
291 


292 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

that they would reach a permanent spring the next 
day by noon. The distinct trail of the Apaches 
corroborated the guide’s statement that the hostiles, 
too, were heading for the only permanent watering 
place in that vicinity, and the chances were that a 
surprise could be effected. 

For five days the detachment had been suffering 
from the intense heat, travelling slowly during 
mid-day to save the horses as much as possible. 
Water was scarce, and only to be found at widely dis¬ 
tant places even in ordinary seasons, but the past 
six months had brought little rain, and many of the 
pools were dry. 

Long before ten o’clock that morning every can¬ 
teen had been drained. No one had doubted 
Pancho’s ability to find water by noon. But noon 
passed and afternoon waned. 

The Apaches’ trail lured them on; doubling, scat¬ 
tering, converging, the unshod hoofprints beckoned, 
and the detachment followed them with grim 
tenacity until darkness made it impossible to dis¬ 
cern any signs in the soft sand. 

Stanley realized the heavy responsibility as he sat 
on his horse and studied the dim desolation. 

“It will take as long to return to last night’s 
camp,” he reasoned, “as it will take to go on to 
water. I can’t turn back. Miles’s commands were 
peremptory: ‘Make pursuit by the most vigorous 
forced marches until the strength of all the animals 


THE LOST TROOP 


293 


in the command shall have been exhausted/ And 
we’ve not reached that point yet. Besides, this 
trail is plain.” 

The men dismounted at his order. 

There was an abundance of dry rations, but food 
went untouched because of thirst. The horses 
pawed and whinnied as the troopers unsaddled them. 
Stanley, standing beside Tiswin, saw the question 
in the horse’s eyes, and unable to stand the unspoken 
plea, the young officer poured the few remaining 
drops of tepid water from his canteen into his hol¬ 
lowed hand and held it so that Tiswin could lick the 
moisture with his hot, dry tongue. 

The act roused Stanley more keenly to the serious 
situation. He faced the Mexican guide. 

“How much farther to that water?” he demanded. 

“Quien sabe P” Pancho’s drawling whine replied. 
“Eet is dark—the trail vamoose—maybe five miles!” 
he shrugged his shoulders and pointed the direction. 

“Forward,” ordered the lieutenant. The men 
mounted their weary animals and swung on. 

They travelled through the night, making such 
speed as they might while the awful sun was below 
the horizon. A respite all too brief. It rolled up 
over the plain, a consuming flame; and swung 
above them like the clapper of a brazen bell tolling 
the desert tragedy. The heat was so intense that 
the metal of accoutrements blistered wherever it 
touched the men’s flesh, and horses were covered with 


294 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

dry lather. Silence of the desert gripped each man 
as he rode scanning every elevation of sand in the 
hope that in some hollow place might be a pool of 
water. A vain hope; and now all signs of the 
Apaches’ trail had vanished; many horses were dead. 

Again night fell. Too exhausted to continue 
farther, they made a dry camp. 

In the silence of night Pancho rose on his elbow 
and furtively scanned the men who lay in stupefied 
weariness. His eyes narrowed vindictively as they 
rested upon the officer stretched slackly on the sand. 

Inch by inch, Pancho neared a gaunt, white horse, 
but Blake lifted his head and listened. With a sup¬ 
pressed oath the guide dropped on his face and re¬ 
mained motionless until the old soldier had relaxed 
his vigilance. Pancho crawled to another horse, 
but another soldier lay beside it. Then the Mexican 
realized that, each man, despite his own plight, had 
tied the halter rope of his horse around his own arm, 
to keep it from straying in search of water. To per¬ 
sist in efforts to steal a horse meant loss of precious 
darkness and possible detection and death at the 
hands of the soldiers. So the guide sneaked out of 
the camp. 

He had told the truth when he had said that he 
knew every inch of the Sonora Desert and where to 
find water each day. Only a few miles distant a per¬ 
manent spring bubbled from a flat rock. He could 
have reached it by sunrise if his horse had not died. 


THE LOST TROOP 


295 


The exhausted soldiers would not bother to follow 
his trail, even if they should notice it. Later, weeks 
later, he and his compadre, Sanchez, would come and 
collect rich booty of pistols, ammunition, saddles, 
and bridles from among the bleached bones at this 
part of the desert. 

He crawled silently, with infinite patience, wary 
of rousing the broken but faithful guard. He 
emerged from the circle and crawled where the white 
sand ran smoothly under the stars. But he was not 
alone. 

As silently as he, a sinuous, crawling evil thing— 
venomous companion of his spirit—crept beside him. 
Pancho’s hand touched it and jerked back; but not 
quickly enough. A whirr of rattles. The snake 
struck and glided on its way, but the Mexican guide 
stayed wdiere he was, clutching the sand, and he did 
not return to his compadre, Sanchez, who waited in 
Sasabe. 

Through the night Stanley had been tortured by 
dreams in which he thought he was standing with 
Bonita beside a sycamore tree, while cool water 
rippled at their feet—water which turned to dry, 
hot sand when he knelt to quench his maddening 
thirst. And then he had risen to see the girl across 
an impassable canon filled with flames, and in her 
outstretched hand was a cup of water. 

Someone spoke his name. 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


He started to his feet and stared stupidly at Ser¬ 
geant Blake. Gray dawn was crawling sluggishly 
above the horizon, as though shuddering to look at 
the things on the sand, and the sun leaped after it. 
Stanley pressed his shrivelled hand against his blood¬ 
shot eyes, to shut away the torturing light. 

“I’se done saddled Tiswin, Lieutenant. De men’s 
raidy.” The old soldier’s reddened eyes were 
sunken deeply in the parchment-dry skin, which was 
a queer gray hue, not black. His clawlike hand 
lifted in salute and fell heavily. 

Stanley rose to his feet and looked around at the 
men who awaited his command. Men whose lives 
depended upon him. 

A deep feeling of hopelessness was settling upon 
the officer. Many of the horses had already been 
left behind, dead or dying, thus making it necessary 
for the dismounted soldiers to ride double; and the 
few surviving horses were now barely able to carry 
the burden of one rider. But they must go on. 

Tiswin braced himself when the officer mounted 
him. 

‘ 4 Ready. Forward. ’ ’ 

The familiar words came from Stanley’s cracked 
and swollen lips, not the ringing command but a 
hoarse whisper. But the men heard it and obeyed. 


Chapter XLIII 

The Silent Call 


I T WAS reveille. 

The cannon roared its salute to the morning 
sun. The flag fluttered to the top of the tall 
staff and the bugles rang in unison. 

Golden warmth streamed through the white cur¬ 
tains that billowed softly in the breeze. Bonita 
listened dreamily: 


“Though scorning the warning. 

Sun climbs adorning 
Clouds that will soon be slain, 

Whate’er it may presage, 

I read its message . 

Each morning on the plain. 

And rise to follow, follow. 

Where duty calleth me, 

To life in hill or hollow. 

Or Death with Life and thee.” 

So often she and Jerry had sung those familiar 
words! Somewhere he was answering that call. The 
ache still tore her heart. Her quivering lips whis¬ 
pered his name. She opened her eyes and her heavy 
glance rested on the half-opened closet door which 
297 


298 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


revealed her wedding gown. Bonita turned her 
face and closed her eyelids to shut away the sight 
of the soft white folds, while slow tears wet her 
cheeks. Other scenes came back—scenes that she 
never would forget. 

Unable to stand the torture of her thoughts, she 
dressed hastily and ran out on the porch until Fin¬ 
negan brought her horse. Mounting, she turned 
Don’s head toward the valley. She longed to ride 
away from everything and everyone she knew—to 
ride far across the desert to the world’s end and 
never come back. Like some wild thing trapped, 
her spirit was bruised, for she had beaten against the 
bars. 

Far away the amethyst mountains loomed against 
the turquoise sky. Desert and mountains were 
calling. Desert, mountains, and Jerry. 


Chapter XLIV 
A House o.f Glass 


HOUR before noon Roy ran up the front 



steps of The Folly and hurried into his 


mother’s room. She rose in surprise at the 
expression of his pale face. 

“Mother, a telegram has just come that Jerry 
and a detachment of Kern’s troop are lost on the 
Sonora Desert. I’m going to help find him. Where’s 
Nita?” He glanced about quickly. 

“Out riding,” replied Mrs. Duncan, then she 
added sharply, “Why should you go after him?” 

“Good Lord, Mother! Why shouldn’t IP He’s 
my chum. I am starting at once. I want to tell 


Nita.” 


“Don’t tell her about this,” commanded his 
mother, placing her hand on his shoulder and look¬ 
ing into his eyes. “You must not.” 

“Why not?” Amazement was in his face and voice. 

“Because there is no telling what she may say or 
do,” asserted Mrs. Duncan vehemently. “We had 
trouble enough with her about him before we went 
to camp. Your father forbade him our house and 


300 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

commanded Bonita to cut him. She refused to 
do it-” 

“But, Mother—Mother-” expostulated Roy. 

The tide of her speech was not to be stemmed. 

“Stanley encouraged her in her infatuation,” she 
went on. 

“Infatuation?” Roy exploded. “What-” 

His mother nodded violently. 

“And now that he is lost, she’ll probably want to 
go and find him.” 

Roy caught the back of a chair as though to steady 
himself. 

“Mother,” he spoke in a voice that she had never 
heard before, “ will you cool down and tell me what 
the devil you mean?” 

The Duchess stamped her foot, her eyes flashed, 
and a deep flush covered her cheeks. 

“I am telling you,” she retorted furiously. “Your 
father threatened to kick Stanley out of the house, 
and then he had the impudence to write to Bonita in 
the camp. But that’s all the good it did him. She 
didn’t get a letter. Not one!” 

“Oh, I see!” 

With a long sigh, Roy dropped heavily into a chair 
and buried his face in his hands. Mrs. Duncan 
stared at him and bit her lips. She had said too 
much. Roy looked up at her. She felt that a 
stranger looked at her with condemning eyes. 

“Where are those letters?” 


THE HOUSE OF GLASS 


301 


“Your father returned them unopened to Stanley 
and let him know that further communications 
would be destroyed unopened. That put an end to 
his writing.” 

“Why did you do it?” the coldly accusing voice 
questioned. 

“Roy Duncan! You certainly must have known 
about that Gonzales woman and him! Everyone 
was talking about it.” 

He started to his feet and caught her wrist vio¬ 
lently, “My God, Mother! What are you driving 
at? What about that—that—woman and Jerry?” 

“You are hurting me, Roy!” Her voice trem¬ 
bled. He released his grip. They faced each other 
tensely. 

“You certainly must know that he is the father 
of her child!” 

Roy fumbled at the collar of his blouse and went 
over to the table where he stood with his back to his 
mother. 

“And you told Bonita—that?” he asked, without 
turning. 

“I certainly did not tell her,” snapped Mrs. Dun¬ 
can. “I don’t think she knows anything about it.” 

Roy wheeled about. “It’s a damned rotten 
mess!” He flung up his hands and laughed. “Oh, 
Lord! Oh, Lord!” but there was no mirth in his 
laughter and tears were on his cheeks: “Poor old 
Jerry! That’s what you get for shielding me!” 


30£ 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


“You?” 

“Yes.” 

He saw her eyes harden into stone. 

“Mother.” He spoke pleadingly, holding out his 
hands. 

She turned and walked away from him after one 
scathing glance. 

Roy caught up his cap and opened the door into 
the hallway. 

“Well, I’ve got to face the music,” he called back 
to her over his shoulder. 

“You are going?” she demanded without looking 
around. 

“I am going to find Jerry. Find him—dead or 
alive!” 

She did not reply, and Roy slammed the door. 
Bonita in her riding habit stood beside him. Her 
tortured eyes were lifted to his face. “Where is 
Jerry?” 

Roy knew that it was the time for honest speech. 
“Off the trail somewhere. He hasn’t reported. 
The troops are scouting for him and I am going out 
to help find him.” 

She did not flinch or speak but moved swiftly 
ahead of him to the front gate where a soldier, who 
had just led up Roy’s horse, was unfastening Don’s 
reins. 

“Wait!” she said very quietly. “I need Don.” 

The striker moved off and Roy reached her side. 


303 


THE HOUSE OF GLASS 

There was no concealment in the eyes she lifted to 
his as she said, “Help me up, Roy. I’m going with 
you.” 

“Nita, you can’t stand such a trip!” 

“Yes, I can. Let me go with you or I shall go 
alone!” 

“We’ll go together,” he said gently, and he 
swung her to her saddle. 

Mrs. Duncan started toward the door as she heard 
the clatter of hoofs on the roadway. She had heard 
Bonita’s voice in the hall and had waited for Roy to 
come back. The hoofbeats were growing fainter. 
She ran out of the house and stood staring after two 
riders. 

“Roy!” she cried. But her call was lost in the 
noise of hoofs that pounded on the ground. 

Blindly she turned back into her room and fell 
sobbing across the bed, still hearing the pounding 
hoofs on the ruins of her cherished little house of 
glass. 


Chapter XLV 
Water ! 


TiOSS the sand in silence rode a troop that 



had been a part of the Fighting Tenth— 


X JL rode like ghosts that had risen from their 
graves. And beside the staggering horses walked 
Despair. 

The moving column resolved itself into separate 
vertebrae like a disintegrating serpent as the men 
and horses crawled listlessly along. The horses were 
pitiful caricatures of the beautiful, spirited animals 
of which the troopers had been so proud. Now 
with flanks drawn, heads swinging low, bodies gaunt, 
and legs trembling, they stumbled on. The eyes of 
the poor brutes were like the eyes of wooden horses 
and their dry tongues lolled from their open mouths. 

On their backs huddled mummy-like figures whose 
tongues protruded between cracked lips covered 
with dry froth, while other men clung weakly to the 
stirrup straps, swaying as they moved. 

At noon a ray of hope dawned as they saw black 
clouds gather on the horizon. Praying, hoping, they 
watched the moisture-laden masses drift slowly 


304 


WATER! 


305 


toward them across the brazen sky. Their suffer¬ 
ings were almost forgotten. Relief seemed so near. 

For two hours the clouds banked heavily above 
their heads, and they spread saddle blankets and 
coats, that the rain might saturate the fabrics. 
Then the clouds floated away, holding the precious 
moisture as greedily as a miser clutches his gold. 

Wearily they toiled on again. Hours went past 
unheeded. The sun beat down upon them, the 
reflected heat from the sand formed into a quivering 
haze. Step after step they plodded mechanically, 
hopelessly. Thought was deadened by physical 
suffering that was beyond description. 

“Water! Water! Water!” 

The hoarse cry did not rouse them. Too many 
times had they heard it from men who screamed in a 
delirium of thirst. 

Then another took up the cry, and still others 
reiterated it, but this time it was a cry of joy, while 
they halted, spellbound at the sight of a beautiful 
lake a short distance away. There were green 
waving trees on its banks and the water lay placidly, 
coolly, and deeply blue. The men staggered toward 
it, with rasping cries of delight, unheeding the 
officer who rode after them. 

“Stop! For God’s sake, stop. It’s a mirage!” 

They struggled frantically toward it, feasting their 
eyes on the lake and the shadows that dipped into it. 
Men fell, and unable to regain their feet, weakly 


306 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


dragged themselves along the ground. No one 
stopped or gave heed to their pleas for help. One 
man grasped another’s ankle, imploring aid to reach 
the water. They had been bunkies for years, but 
the stronger man pushed the other away with a 
curse and hastened forward leaving the prostrate 
man whimpering weakly on the sand. 

One by one they halted and stared at an endless 
stretch of sand. Like an unfinished negative, the 
vision of water and cool green places had vanished, 
and they understood at last that a mirage—the 
wanton of the desert—had lured them with its 
false promises. 

Some of them fell limply, others threw themselves 
*on their faces and bit and clawed the sand in frenzy 
of despair. A few howled curses and shook their puny 
fists in defiance of the Omnipotent. And Stanley, 
realizing his utter helplessness, watched with dull 
eyes the fighting, screaming, cursing men who had 
once been the best-disciplined troop of the regiment. 

One by one they turned their hopeless eyes 
toward him and obeyed his voice. On and on, 
mile after mile, they staggered and stumbled until 
sunset. Then they fell wearily to the ground. 

Stanley dismounted stiffly from Tiswin’s back and 
stood beside the horse, looking at the sprawling in¬ 
ert figures that seemed to be those of men who were 
dead. Loud buzzing oppressed him and sharp pains 
in head and ears were almost unbearable. 


WATER! 


307 


How much longer could any of them hold out? 
Most of the horses were already dead. 

His hand rested heavily upon Tiswin’s neck. A 
tremor of the animal’s body grew more pronounced. 
Stanley turned and looked into the imploring eyes. 
He touched the hot nose gently. Then the horse 
swayed and slipped slowly to its knees. Still the 
pleading eyes watched his master. 

Weakly the horse’s head drooped to the ground and 
it rolled over on the sand. A deep breath that was 
almost a sob—a convulsive shiver—then Tiswin was 
still. 

Stanley stood looking down on him until a touch 
on his arm roused him and he turned to face Blake. 

“Lieutenant”—the man’s broken articulation was 
marked—“De men—Tiswin is daid—hit won’t 
hu’t him—we’s got ter keep de res’ ob de hawses so 
long as we kin—hit’s de onliest chance fo’ de men 
dat cain’t go no furdah-” . 

Stanley looked into the old man’s eyes—looked 
at those who lay almost lifeless upon the sand— 
and remembered those who, farther back on the 
trail, had been unable to rise and go on. 

So as the horses played out, the men gained ficti¬ 
tious strength from the blood; but always came the 
reaction. 

By superhuman will power, Stanley held aloof, 
knowing that only by controlling himself could he 
hope to keep his control over the men. 


308 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


“De hawses is all daid, Lieutenant, an’ yo’ gotter 
ride Lill,” Sergeant Blake half-ordered, half-pleaded. 
“Caze if yo’ plays out, we all cain’t go on noways.” 

“ We'll all take turns riding,” the young officer 
answered, and aided by Blake he struggled to mount 
the mule’s back. 

Once more Stanley roused the men, and what was 
left of the detachment dragged apathetically after 
him until Blake, trudging feebly behind his lieuten¬ 
ant, fell and did not rise. 

Stanley dismounted and with help of the others 
lifted the old sergeant to the mule’s back. For a 
while the officer and one of Blake’s comrades sup¬ 
ported the unconscious soldier, but the additional 
tax on their strength soon made itself felt. 

They halted. Stanley tore the yellow stripes 
from the sides of his trousers. There was no need 
for the insignia of an officer of the cavalry. The 
desert recognized neither rank nor race. Blake’s 
arms, extended along either side of the mule’s lean 
neck, were bound at the wrists, while the Negro’s 
head sagged heavily against Lill’s withers. 

Lill was an institution in the regiment. She had 
been captured during a fight between Indians and two 
troops of the Tenth Cavalry in 1871 near Camp Sup¬ 
ply, and for fifteen years she had been the pride and 
the pest of the troop to which she had been assigned. 
And now she bore the old sergeant as the command 
went on its march of death. 


WATERf 


309 


They halted to rest at sundown, and Stanley, 
lying on the sand, noted with bloodshot eyes a dis¬ 
tant peak. It seemed familiar. Like a fog lifting, 
his vague thoughts grew more clear. As he studied 
the peak he suddenly remembered it. On the way 
toward the desert he had turned in his saddle to 
look back at the detachment and had noticed that 
same peculiar contour directly in line with the 
water hole at which they had spent the night. But 
he dared not tell this new-born hope to the men 
until he was sure that he was right. 

A full moon rose in the cloudless sky. For the 
past few nights it had been obscured by storm 
clouds which had drifted over their heads, only to 
evaporate in the strong rays of the morning sun. 
Without the stars to guide, the officer had not dared 
to march at night for fear of missing some land¬ 
mark. But to-night the moon’s rays were bright 
and he could watch that peak—the only clue to their 
former camp. 

Drearily they trudged through sand that like the 
strong tentacles of an octopus clutched their feet. 
As Stanley watched the peak, the stars above it 
seemed to turn to balls of fire that grew steadily 
larger and hotter, swirling furiously until they 
melted into a blazing sunrise that like a white-hot 
iron seared his inflamed eyeballs. 

He pressed his hand across them as he plodded 
along leading the mule on which Blake was tied. 


310 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


His hand dropped to his side, and he walked with 
bent head, dreading to face the glare. The ground 
grew solid now, and there at his feet he saw dis¬ 
tinct tracks—shod horses—horses that had travelled 
toward the heart of the Sonora Desert—their own 
tracks from the water hole. 

They had circled their trail! 

The men crowded eagerly about him, and the 
sight of the hoofprints, like wine in their veins, 
inspired them to more desperate efforts. Their 
drawn faces and bloodshot eyes were lifted to the 
distant peak. 

Five miles away was water! Five miles. They 
crawled on. 

At last they reached it and fell on their faces. 
In the life-saving fluid they laid their parched lips, 

“Drink only a mouthful when I order,” Stanley 
commanded. 

They understood and obeyed. And no man may 
say what obedience meant on that day. 

The water was hot, strongly alkali, and stagnant. 
A famished coyote’s carcass rested partly in the pool. 
One of the men dragged it back. In the shallow 
places the water was thick and jelly-like; but to 
those who lay prone, moistening their swollen lips, 
the viscid liquid was purest nectar. 

The tissues of their skeleton moisture-starved 
bodies were almost as dry as the flesh of mummies; 
and through the day they rested by the pool, laying 


WATER! 


311 


their hands in it, laving their shrivelled faces in it, 
moving only when permitted to relieve the constant 
demand of thirst. 

Stanley restrained his own craving in order that 
he might safeguard the others. He had explained 
that over-indulgence now meant as much danger as 
their previous lack of water. Blake had been cared 
for, and now helped to encourage the men to obey 
the lieutenant’s commands. 

So the night passed. 

At dawn Stanley ordered that canteens be filled 
and, tying them to the mule’s saddle, he started 
back over the trail to find and succour those who 
had been unable to keep up with their comrades. 

Though the men had water, they were without 
food, and the plight of those beside the water hole 
was grave. Stanley knew that it would be impossi¬ 
ble for them, in their weakened condition, to hold 
out until they could march to any place where food 
might be obtained. But his first duty now was to 
find those who had been left behind, and, if possible, 
get them also to the water hole. 

Exhaustion, dizziness, blindness almost over¬ 
came him, but he fought determinedly on and kept 
his aching eyes upon the trail that led back to where 
men lay dying or dead upon the sand. 

The sun rose higher. 

A dust cloud darkened the distant horizon. 
Stanley did not notice it. 


3 n WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

It thickened the air and the hot wind licked his 
face. His head sank down until it rested on the 
mule’s neck. Then his shrivelled hands that clutched 
the pommel of the saddle relaxed and his body slid 
to the ground where he lay with face turned up- 
ward. His eyes were closed. 

Lill waited. But he did not rise. 

So, carrying the canteens of water, she trotted on 
her way. 


Chapter XLVI 
The Land of Lost Trails 


A CROSS the gray stretch of desolation known 
lJL as the Sonora Desert three people rode. 

-*■ The town of Willcox, where Roy and 

Bonita had halted to make arrangements for their 
journey, lay many miles behind them. The full 
realization of what they must confront and the 
risks to the girl had filled the young officer with 
anxiety. It was not his own safety but hers that 
counted. So when he met Ramon, a Mexican desert 
rat, ambling along the uneven boardwalk that mas¬ 
queraded as a pavement in front of the Willcox 
stores, he engaged the old man to act as guide at 
quadruple the usual price, and in little over an hour’s 
time they started on their way with a pack horse 
fully equipped for the journey. 

Before they left the town Roy had learned that 
detachments of cavalry were scouring in different 
sections adjacent to the last known location of the 
lost men, and Captain Kern, with his part of the 
troop, was already out of communication some¬ 
where in the heart of the desert. 

313 


314 WHEN GERONIMO RODE 

During daylight and until late at night Roy and 
Bonita rode without halting. Ramon mapped out 
short cuts which would bring them to permanent 
water each night, though the camps were far apart 
from each other. Only the need of resting their 
animals made the riders halt, for all of them were 
eager to avoid losing one precious moment. 

Bonita, continually watching for some object, 
either moving or motionless on the sand, forgot those 
who rode with her—forgot there was any other 
world than the gray desert. Its brooding silence 
wrapped about them and its vastness melted into the 
pale horizon as though Life and Eternity blended 
there. 

Two days had they ridden where even the Papago 
Indians, when assigned to the section as their res¬ 
ervation, had refused to remain and face its in¬ 
describable desolation. 

Roy anxiously watched a faint haze to the front 
of them. It slowly became more opaque. Ramon, 
too, watched as he trailed behind them with the 
pack horse. The young officer twisted in his saddle 
and the two men exchanged meaning glances. The 
Mexican shook his head. He had been in more than 
one desert sandstorm, but never had a young girl 
been among those he had guided. 

How would she be able to face it when men—- 
strong men—lay down and died? 

A faint sibilant sound, like myriads of whispering 


315 


THE LAND OF LOST TRAILS 

voices, drifted across the silent places. Here and 
there the many-coloured particles of loose sand 
shifted, as though beneath the surface gigantic* 
invisible fingers were moving. Heat waves shimmer¬ 
ed blindingly across the distant haze. Dry wind 
flicked the faces of the riders. 

They bound handkerchiefs about nostrils and 
mouths and pulled their hats down farther over their 
eyes. 

The wind grew stronger. It caught the sand, 
twisted it into strands, and wove them into huge 
ropes with widespreading, tousled ends which 
gyrated wildly high in the air. The moving columns, 
gathering in size and force, swept like an army of 
strange monsters across the desert and circled about 
the riders, who bent low over their horses’ necks. 

The sand cut their flesh and crept into nostrils 
and lungs, their horses sidled and finally stopped, 
nose to nose, their tails to the storm and heads hang¬ 
ing low. The wind howled, the sand hissed, the 
sunlight was shut away, and grayness was turning 
to darkness. 

Night was upon them and the storm still raged. 
They had hoped that it might die at sunset. 

“Bonita,” Roy said anxiously, leaning close to 
her, “we’re in for a bad time of it. You had better 
turn back with Ramon before we get farther into the 
desert.” 

She shook her head. 


316 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


“ Senorita , eet is muy malo -” 

There was no reply. 

“Go back, Nita,” urged Roy, laying his hand 
upon hers. “Ramon knows the way and your 
backs will be to the storm.” 

He could not see her face, but her voice came 
clearly: “I must go on!” 

“Do you care so much, Bonita?” 

The wind hushed for a second as though waiting 
the girl’s reply. 

“I care so much that nothing he ever has done, 
nothing he ever could do, would make any difference 
to me. I love him.” 

“Push on, Ramon,” the officer called to the guide. 

“Sf, senor .” 

“You shall not! You shall not!” shrieked the 
storm, beating them with thousands of lashes of sand. 

Into the heart of it they plunged, their horses 
braced to meet the furious gale. Like swimmers 
fighting waterspouts in the sea, the men and the girl 
battled inch by inch against the terrific whirlwinds 
of the desert. 

66 Senor," shouted Ramon above the noise, “we 
must stay here till the storm stops, or maybe so I 
lose the trail.” They dismounted. 

Roy looked at the dimly outlined figure of the 
girl, who with Ramon’s serape over her head and 
shoulders bent low and took the storm as they 
huddled on the sand. 



THE LAND OF LOST TRAILS 317 

“I think the wind is dying down a bit.” He 
lifted his voice above the noise: “Maybe you will 
be able to get a little sleep.” 

“I’m all right”—he caught her words—“don’t 
worry about me, Roy.” 

“Eet will be over by midnight, senor ,” prophesied 
Ramon encouragingly. 

And he was right. At midnight the wind abated. 
The three rose and moved about to straighten their 
cramped muscles. 

“Stretch out and rest for a little while, Nita. I’ll 
unsaddle the horses while Ramon gets us something 
to eat.” 

But not until after the guide had given them 
what food he was able to prepare and their horses 
had been fed did Bonita relax. She sank on the sand 
and lay with her sleepless eyes lifted to the sky. 
The full moon shone dimly through a haze of dust 
upon the illimitable desert. The men and horses 
had fallen where they were, in heavy sleep. 

The silence after the storm was oppressive. Around, 
concealed by the heavy haze, lay miles of desert. 
Desert and sky—vast and silent as eternity—the 
land of lost trails. 

Suddenly Bonita was erect, every nerve tense. 

“Roy!” she called. “Roy!” 

She ran over to him. “I heard something-” 

Both men scrambled to their feet. 

“Hello! Hello!” they shouted again and again. 


318 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


pausing between calls to listen for an answer, but 
there was only silence. 

The girl laid a trembling hand on Roy’s arm. 
“Oh, I know that I heard something moving. I 
have not been asleep!” 

Once more the two men shouted, again they waited 
a reply. 

But the stillness was broken only by a girl’s half- 
choked, despairing sob. Every muscle in her 
body ached, and the hope that had buoyed her till 
now had almost reached the breaking point. 

“Oh, let us go on! Let us go on!” she cried 
piteously. 

But Ramon insisted that until the haze had lifted 
from the obscured moon it would be dangerous to 
move. 

Roy laid his hand on the girl’s shoulder. “All 
right, Nita. We will push on just as soon as it is 
safe.” Roughly tender, he added, “Buck up, girl!” 

“I will,” he heard her answer bravely through the 
gloom. 

Roy sat down beside her. “Bonita, I do not know 
whether you heard that damnable gossip about 
Jerry or not, and-” 

Her hand reached out quickly to check his words. 
“I know,” she said, “but even though it is true, it 
makes no difference now to me.” 

“It was not true,” he cried passionately, “Jerry 
was innocent. He was protecting me!” 


THE LAND OF LOST TRAILS 319 


And then while night hours crept across the desert 
Roy told her the whole wretched story. She asked 
no questions, made no comments, but as he finished 
speaking, he heard her whisper brokenly, “Jerry, 
forgive me—forgive me!” 

The poignant grief of her voice tore at his heart. 
“Bonita”—he held her hand tightly in his own— 
“please believe me—I did not know—I would have 
given my life for him!” 

In the faint light he saw her face lifted toward the 
hidden sky; her lips were moving. He bowed his 
head, and from his heart went forth a prayer. 


Chapter XLVII 
Reveille ! 


B Y JOVE!” Roy’s exclamation startled them. 
“Something is moving! Hello! Hello!” 

His shout was caught up by Ramon. It 
was followed by an extraordinary answer from 
near by—“Hee—haw! Hee-haw!” 

“A mule, by thunder!” the officer cried. 

Ramon leaped to his bareback pony and dashed 
toward the sound. The shuffle of hoofs came faintly, 
then more clearly, and the Mexican emerged from 
obscurity leading a saddled mule—a mule with an 
army saddle. 

“It’s Lill!” Roy called. “Lord bless the Old 
renegade!” 

Bonita ran over and patted the mule’s rough neck. 
Tears were on the girl’s cheeks and hope rekindled 
in her heart. 

Ramon tested the water in canteens which hung 
from Lill’s saddle, and explained that it came from the 
alkali lake in the rocks, ten miles south of the spring 
toward which they themselves had been travelling, 
but the storm had diverted them from their course. 


320 


321 


REVEILLE! 

“Can you follow the mule’s trail in this light?” 
questioned the officer. 

“Si, si, teniente” Ramon already felt the 
money in his hand. 

“Coffee first,” ordered Roy. Bonita shook her 
head, but he was determined. “There’s no telling 
when we’ll stop again. We all need food. If you 
play out, neither Ramon nor I can go on.” 

“I won’t play out,” she said quietly. 

It was not the distance they might have to travel 
which worried Roy, but whether her fortitude should 
prove equal to what they might find. Silently 
he helped the Mexican saddle the horses. 

“Two o’clock,” Roy spoke as they started on 
their way. 

“Two o’clock,” Bonita repeated, a thrill in her 
voice. “‘Two o’clock and all is well’ the sentinels 
are calling it, Roy! 6 All is well! 9 ” 

The gray haze revealed a shrouded moon. They 
travelled silently for two hours while Ramon, in the 
lead, bent over his pony’s neck and scrutinized the 
faint tracks where the small, sharp hoofs of the 
mule had cut deeply into the soft sand. 

Adept in reading signs, the guide knew that the 
mule could have travelled some distance since the 
storm had died at midnight, so the trail would be 
clear. If she had strayed from her unknown rider 
before the storm had ceased, the tracks they now 
followed hopefully would be obliterated before the 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


man could be found. But even so, the trail would 
indicate the direction from which the mule had come. 

And then, the thing they feared, happened. The 
hoofprints vanished. Wiped out by the sand storm. 

“Well, now we are up against it!” Roy’s voice 
was heavy with discouragement. “How about it, 
Ramon? Do you know which way to go?” 

The Mexican glanced up to the sky. As yet there 
was no sign of dawn. The dust haze was thick. 

“ Quien sabe?” he muttered and hunched over his 
pony to stare at the ground. “When the sun ees 
bright, maybe so we can follow the trail. QuiSn 
sabe?” Dubiously he shook his head. 

Then Bonita took command. 

“We’ll separate here. Some one of us may pick 
up the trail. Ramon, turn Lill loose. I will take 
her with me. Roy, you go to the right and Ramon 
to the left. We can cover ground in less time that 
way.” 

“One of us must go with you,” expostulated 
Roy. 

“No!” she shook her head impatiently. “I 
won’t get lost. The wind has died down and our 
trails will be fresh. We can double back at noon 
and find each other here. Leave something as a 
mark. Hurry! We are wasting time!” 

“ Senor, she is right.” Ramon spoke quickly, and 
as he spoke he threw his bright red serape in a heap 
on the sand. On top of it he placed a canteen of 


REVEILLE! 


water. “If some man come, he find water and know 
we come back muy pronto /” 

The Mexican mounted his pony, then dismounted 
and hobbled the pack horse carefully, leaving it to 
hop at its will, for he knew it could not stray far 
from the spot where their camp outfit was lying, 
and where the red serape would attract attention. 

“Bueno!” he grunted, and sent his horse at a gallop 
across the plain. 

Bonita had already started, and Roy, moving to 
the right, turned in his saddle to look back at the 
slender, dauntless figure as it vanished in the haze. 

For an hour she pressed on, scanning the desert 
as far as her eyes could reach, and hope grew in her 
heart each moment. The feeling that each step 
was bringing her nearer to Jerry was something she 
could not explain. Without the faintest shadow of 
doubt she pushed eagerly forward while at intervals 
her voice broke the silence. 

“I am coming, Jerry! I am coming!” Some¬ 
times it quivered a bit, but again it rang bravely: 
“I am coming!” 

The first gray promise of day was filtering through 
the misty air. The vanishing moon, like a silver 
sword, cut the thinning haze, leaving a clear vista 
for a brief second; and in that instant Bonita had 
seen a dark spot on the sand. 

She sent her horse at a furious gallop toward it and 
sprang to the ground beside the unconscious figure of 


324 


WHEN GERONIMO RODE 


a man. A torn shirt clung to his sun-blistered 
body, and there were no yellow stripes on the blue 
trousers to indicate that this was an officer. His 
face, like brown parchment, was almost hidden in a 
matted mass of beard, and unkempt hair fell over his 
forehead, making him almost unrecognizable. But 
Bonita knew that it was Jerry. 

In a moment she had unstrapped a canteen, 
jerked a flask from her saddle pocket, and knelt 
down beside him. 

There was no sign of life as she rested his head on 
her arm and tried to force a few drops of water be¬ 
tween the swollen lips, laved his face, then bathed 
temples and wrists with the brandy. 

She let the stimulant drop upon his lips, and waited 
for a sign of consciousness. Waited in vain. 

Calling his name, she held him closely against her 
breast. Around her stretched the desert. She did 
not know it was there. The haze lifted slowly and 
the first pink tinge grew in the sky. But she did 
not see it. There was no world, no desert, no sky. 

The breeze freshened and lifted the hair on the sun¬ 
burned forehead, showing the whiter skin. Bonita 
touched it tenderly, remembering the first time she 
had seen him and had noticed the white strip which 
the vizor of his cap had protected from the sun. 
Her lips were laid against it. 

Then fear crept into her heart—fear of the long, 
long years that she might have to live alone 3 with 


REVEILLE! 325 

no sound of his loved voice, no clasp of his arms, no 
touch of his lips on her own. 

Around and about them lay silence, desolation, 
and death. 

“Jerry!” she cried, and drew him closer in her arms. 
But he did not move. 

With a burst of glory, into the cloudless sky leaped 
the sun. Then from the distant camp of Kern’s 
searching troop came the sweet, clear notes of a 
bugle. The call was like the touch of a white-hot 
iron on the girl’s tortured heart. 

“Listen, my dear, my dear,” she sobbed, her face 
against the quiet one on her breast. “The bugles— 
the bugles of the troop! Can’t you hear us calling 
you?” 

She felt him stir in her arms. Slowly he opened 
his eyes and looked into her face. The radiance 
of dawn lay upon it. 

“Bonita—beloved-” Wonder was in his 

voice. 

Then Life—glorious Life—surged back full tide 
upon him. The girl’s cheek, wet with tears of joy, 
was pressed against his own, and across the glowing 
golden sands clear and triumphant rang the music of 
a bugle. 

Reveille! 


THE END 






































































































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